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SOLITUDE 


CONSIDERED,    WITH 


RESPECT    TO    ITS    INFLUENCE 


THE  MINP,  AND  THE   HEART. 


\v-     h?. 


WRITTEN    ORIGINALLY    IIC    GERMAN. 

BY  M.  ZIMMERMAjWY, 

AULIC      COUNSELLOR      AND      PHYSICIAN      TO      HIS 
BRITANNIC    MAJESTY,    AT    HANOVER. 

—        —  ^^^O  *■     

TRANSLATED     FROM    THE     FRENCH    OF 

J.  B,  MERCIER. 


NEW-LONDON  : 

PRiyfTED   ET  CJDT   AND    EELLS. 


vj  "\^   C—    v^ 


PREFACE 


OF   THB 


FRENCH    TRANSLATOR. 


JL  HE  Title  of  this  work  will,  perhaps,  give  some 
alarm  to  delicate  ears  :  the  word  *^  Solitude"  may 
inspire  melancholy  and  unfavorable  ideas  ;  it  is  how- 
ever only  necessary  to  read  a  few  pages  to  be 
undeceived.  The  author  is  not  one  of  those  extra- 
vagant Misajithropes^  who  would  compel  mankind, 
torn  for  Society,  and  connected  with  it  by  a  variety 
of  indissoluble  ties,  to  retire  into  forests,  to  inhabit 

(iens  and  caves,  ancl  to  live  only  with  Wild  beasts  ; 
he  is  a  friend  to  humanity  ;  a  sensible  and  virtuous 
individual,  an  honest  citizen,  honoured  by  the  es» 
teem  of  his  Prince,  who  endeavours  to  enlighten  the 
minds  of  his  fellow-creatures  upon  a  subject  the 
most  interesting  to  them — the  attainment  of  hap- 
piness. 

No  writer  ever  appeared  more  completely  satis- 
lied  that  man  is  born  for  Society,  or  seems  to  have 
better  studied  all  the  social  duties  of  life,  than  M. 


4'S6 


IV  PKEFAeE    OF    THE 

ZiMMERMANN.  But  what  is  society  ?  what  ate' 
the  social  daties  of  life  ?  These  are  the  questions' 
whicli  the  author  examines.  The  important  cha- 
racters of  Father,  Husl>and>  Son,  and  Citizen,  impose 
on  MAN  certain  indispensable  obligations  which  are 
ever  dear  to  the  virtuous  heart  ;  they  establish  be- 
tween him,  his  country  and  his  family,  relations  too 
necessary  and  too  agreeable  to  be  neglected.  It  is 
not  however  in  tumulttious  joys,  in  the  noisy  pleas- 
ures of  public  entertainments,  in  blindly  following 
the  chimeras  of  ambition,  the  illusions  o^f  self-love, 
or  the  speculations  of  desire,  that  men  must  expect 
to  feel  the  charms  of  those  reciprocal  ties  w^hich 
unite  them  to  Society  ;  to  perceive  the  dignity  of 
^hose  duties  which  nature  made  i)roductive  of  so 
inany  pleasures  ;  to  taste  that  true  felicity  v/hich  is 
accompanied  by  independence  and  content  ;  a  feli-» 
city  so  seldom  desired  only  because  it  is  so  little 
known,  but  which  every  man  may  cultivate  within 
his  own  breast. 

Alas  !  v/ho  has  not  frequently  experienced  the 
necessity  of  entering  into  tliat  sacred  asylum  as  a 
refuge  from  the  misfortunes  of  life,  or  as  a  relief 
from  the  fatigues  of  satiated  pleasures  ?  Yes,  all 
juen,  from  the  sordid  schemer  who  daily  sinks  un- 
der the  weight  of  his  labours,  to  the  proud  statesman 
intoxicated  by  the  incense  of  popular  eipplause,  ex- 
perience the  desire  of  terminating  their  precarious 
career  ;  every  bosom  feels  an  anxiety  for  repose  ; 
every  mind  fondly  wishes  to  steal  from  the  vortex: 
of  a  busy  and  unquiet  life,  to  enjoy  tranquihty  in 
the  Solitude  of  retirement.  Under  the  peaceful 
shades  of  Solitude,  the  mind  of  man  regenerates, 
and  his  faculties  acquire  new  force  ;  it  is  there  alone 
that  the  happy  can  enjoy  the  fullness  of  felicity,  or 
the  miserable  forget  his  woe  ;  it  is  there  that  the 


illEKClI    TRANSLATOll.  V 

bosom  of  sensibility  experiences  its  most  delicious 
emotions  ;  that  creative  genius  frees  itself  from  the 
shackles  of  Society,  and  darts  forth  the  warmest 
i-ays  of  imagination  :  all  the  ideas  of  our  minds,  eve- 
ry inclination  of  our  hearts,  lean  toward  this  desired 
goal.  "  There  is  indeed,"  says  a  sensible  English- 
man, "  scarcely  any  writer  who  has  not  celebrated 
"  the  happiness  of  rural  privacy,  and  delighted  him- 
*'  self  and  his  readers  with  the  melody  of  birds,  the 
"  whisper  of  groves,  and  the  murmur  of  rivulets  ; 
"  nor  any  man  eminent  for  extent  of  capacity,  or 
"  greatness  of  exploits,  that  has  not  left  behind  him 
*'  some  memorials  of  lonely  wisdom  and  silent  dig- 
«  nity." 

The  part  of  the  work  to  which  I  am  most  attach- 
ed is  particularly  addressed  to  the  attention  of 
YOUTH  ;  it  is  to  them  that  it  will  perhaps  be  most 
useful,  and  I  fondly  flatter  myself  that  to  their  minds 
it  will  also  afford  the  highest  pleasure.  Young  my- 
self, and  sensible  of  the  truly  beautiful,  I  felt  myself 
led  on  by  the  charms  of  a  work,  which  elevated  my 
mind,  warmed  my  imagination,  and  touched  my 
heart.  May  it  produce  the  same  effects  upon  my 
young  countrymen  !  May  it,  notwithstanding  the 
weakness  of  this  translation,  inspire  them  with  the 
same  enthusiasm  !  At  least,  I  may  venture  to  ex- 
claim in  the  words  of  M.  Zimmermann,  "  Dear  and 
''  virtuous  young  man,  into  whose  hands  this  book 
*'  perchance  may  fall,  receive  with  affection  the  good 
«  which  it  contains,  and  reject  all  that  is  cold  and 
<*  bad  ;  all  that  does  not  touch  and  penetrate  the 
"  heart  :  but  if  you  thank  me  for  the  performance, 
''  if  you  bless  me,  if  you  acknowledge  that  I  have 
"  enlightened  your  mind,  corrected  your  manners, 
"  and  tranquilized  your  heart,  I  shall  congratulate 
«  myself  ou  the  sincerity  of  my  intentionsj  and  think 
A   2 


Yl  FREFACE    OF    THE 

*'  my  lubours  richly  rewarded.  If,  in  pursuing  it, 
<'  you  find  yourself  able  to  justify  your  inclination 
*'  for  a  wise  and  active  Solitude,  your  aversion  from 
*'  those  societies  which  only  serve  to  destroy  time, 
*'  and  your  repugnance  to  employ  vile  and  shameful 
'^  means  in  the  acquisition  of  riches,  I  shall  ask  no 
'^  other  benediction  for  my  work/' 


It  will  perhaps  appear  surprising  that,  entertain- 
ing so  high  a  veneration  for  the  writings  of  M. 
ZiMMKRMAKN,  I  could  permit  myself  wiih  profane 
hand  to  retrench  the  greater  part  of  his  work  :  per- 
mit me  therefore  to  disclose  the  reasons  which 
influenced  my  conduct.  Four  large  volumes  on 
the  subject  of  Solitude  appeared  to  me  to  be  a 
v/ork  too  arduous  for  the  generality  of  French  rea- 
ders, and  particularly  for  French  booksellers  to 
undertake  ;  for  even  this  short  EssAy,  without  the 
recommendation  of  M.  Le  Tourneur,  could  not 
have  acquired  the  honour  of  the  press.  Besides,  al- 
though the  whole  work  bears  the  marks  of  genius, 
and  the  t\^'o  first  volumes,  which  principally  treat  of 
monastic  Sditude^  contain  without  doubt  many  judi- 
cious reflections,  yet  they  are  |>erhaps  rather  too 
long  for  many  readers,  ami  are  even  capable  of  dis- 
pleasing some,  whose  narrow  prejudices  might  be 
shocked  by  the  liberal  sentiments  of  the  Author, 
who  has  appealed  to  the  decision  of  reason  alone 
upon  the  subject  of  certain  abuses  rendered  sacred 
by  tlie  motives  from  which  they  proceeded.  Not- 
withstanding this,  however,  I  could  not  determine 
to  retrench  the  w^ork  before  I  had  consulted  several 
men  of  letters,  of  enlightened  understandings,  and 
in  high  Livor  w^ith  the  public  :  No,  I  never  could 
have  ventured,  on  my  own  judgment,  to  have  prun- 
ed any  part  of  a  work  vdiich  has  acquired  the  uiii- 


FRENCH    TRANSLATOR.  tlf 

versal  approbation  of  the  German  Empire*,  and  ob- 
tained the  suffrages  of  an  Empress  celebrated  for 
the  superior  brilliancy  of  her  mind,  and  who  has 
signified  her  approbation  in  the  most  flattering 
manner. 

On  the  26th  of  January,  1785,  a  Courier,  dis-* 
patched  by  the  Russian  Envoy  at  Hamburgh, 
presented  M.  Zimmermann  with  a  small  casket,  in 
the  name  of  her  Majesty  the  Empress  of  Russia. 
The  casket  contained  a  ring,  enriched  with  dia- 
monds of  an  extraordinary  size  and  lustre,  and  a  gold 
medal,  bearing  on  one  side  the  portrait  of  the  Em- 
press, and  on  the  other  the  date  of  the  happy 
reformation  of  the  Russian  Empire.  This  present 
the  Empress  accompanied  with  a  letter  written  ia 
her  own  hand,  containing  these  remarkable  words  : 
"  To  M.  Zimmermann,  Counsellor  of  State  and 
^'  Physician  to  his  Britannic  Majesty,  to  thank  him 
*'  for  the  excellent  precepts  he  has  given  to  mankind 
"  in  his  Treatise  upon  Solitude." 

*  T/ie  author  is  already  inserted  in  the  collection  of 
Classic  Authors  Jirinted  at  Carlsrube. 


>vy:  -v-yyy-fttfvt.^ 


T 


SOLITUDE 

CONSIHEUED,    WITH 

RESPECT  TO  ITS  INFLUENCE 

UPON 

THE  MIND  AND  THE   HEART. 

■■■  T"  ^  T^  ^^^- 

CHAPTER    THE   FIRST, 
INTRODUCTION* 


Xn  this  unquiet  and  tumultuous  scene  of  life,  sur- 
rounded by  the  restraints  of  ceremony,  the  urgencies 
of  business,  the  shackles  of  society,  and  in  the  evening 
of  my  days,  I  feel  no  delight  in  tracing  back  the 
images  of  pleasures  that  pass  so  transiently  away  :  my 
soul  dwells  with  higher  satisfaction  on  the  memory  of 
those  happy  days  of  my  youth,  when  solitude  was  my 
sole  amusement  ;  when  I  knew  no  place  more  agree- 
able than  the  sequestered  cloister  and  the  silent  cell, 
the  lonely  mountain  and  the  sublimely  awful  grove  ; 
nor  any  pleasures  more  lively  than  those  I  experienced 
in  conversing  with  the  dead. 

I  love  to  recal  to  my  mind  the  cool  and  silent  scenes 
of  Solitude  ;  to  oppose  them  to  the  heat  and  bustle  of 
the  world  j  to  meditate  on  those  advantages  which 


iO  THE  II^FLUENCE    Ot    SOtlTVtiSL 

the  great  and  good  of  every  age  have  acknowledgedf 
they  possess,  though  perhaps  too  seldom  experienced  ; 
to  reflect  on  the  powerful  consolations  they  afford 
when  grief  corrodes  the  mind,  when  disease  aiilicts 
the  body,  when  the  number  of  our  years  bends  us  to 
the  ground  ;  to  contemplate,  in  short,  the  betiign  m- 
fluence  of  Solitude  upon  all  the  troubles  of  the  heart. 

Solitude  is  that  state  in  which  the  soul  freely  re- 
signs itself  to  its  own  reflections.  The  sage,  therefore, 
who  banishes  from  his  mind  all  recollection  of  the 
objects  by  which  he  is  surrounded,  and  retires  w^ithin 
Iiimself,  is  not  less  solitary  than  he  who  forsakes  soci- 
ety, and  devotes  himself  entirely  to  the  calm  enjoy- 
inents  of  a  lonely  life. 

In  retirement  every  man  surrenders  himself  without 
restraint  or  limitation,  to  the  guidance  of  his  own  ideas, 
and  implicitly  adopts  the  sentiments  which  his  taste, 
temper,  inclination  and  genius,  inspire. 

Observe  the  shepherds  of  those  extensive  deserts  : 
one  chaunts  the  beauty  which  captivates  his  ^ou\  ; 
another  moulds  the  clay  into  a  rustic  vase  ;  the 
surrounding  charms  of  nature  form  the  sole  delight 
and  admiration  of  a  third  ;  while  a  fourth  investigates 
tlie  precepts  of  the  moral  law,  or  contemplates  the 
sublime  truths  o'  our  noiv  :eh>ion.  If  they  were 
respectively  to  meet  a  lovely  shepherdess  beneatli  tlie 
shades  of  their  retirement, .  seated  on  the  borders  of 
some  gently  flowing  stream,  the  heart  of  each  might 
perhaps  become  the  slave  of  love  ;  but  deprived  of  all 
tliat  is  dear  to  man,  and  doomed  to  taste  involuntary 
Solitude,  the  best  resource  for  each  is  to  resign  him- 
self to  the  dictates  of  his  inclination  ;  a  resource  to 
which  every  well-disposed  and  virtuous  mlndmaycon- 
stantly  resort  without  dismay  or  danger. 

Man  in  a  state  of  perfect  freedom  possesses  an  in- 
nate right  to  follow  the  suggestions  of  his  fancy  :  some 
ai'e  delighted  by  the  soft  melody  of  the  nightingale, 


OK  THE    MIND    AND    THE  HEART.  11 

while  Others  listen  with  equal  pleasure  to  the  hideous 
shriekings  of  the  owl.  Some  there  are  to  whom  even 
the  visits  of  frieiidsliip  are  displeasing  ;  who,  to  avoid 
the  painful  intercourse,  confine  themselves  eternally  at 
home,  and  consume  their  hours  in  writing  hooks,  or 
killing  flies. 

The  poor  dejected  heart  constantly  attaches  itself 
to  some  favorite  object,  as  far  at  least  as  circumstances 
and  situation  will  permit,  from  which  it  draws  its  con- 
solation and  support.  Roaming  through  the  cloisters 
of  the  Magdalene  Conveyit^  at  Hidelsheim,  I  was 
surprised  to  observe  an  aviary  of  Canary  birds  in  the 
jcell  of  a  Religeuse.  A  Brabancon  gentleman,  fear- 
ful of  the  effects  of  cold,  and  having  the  same  aversion 
from  WOMEN  that  certain  persons  are  said  to  feel  from 
MICE,  lived  five  and  twenty  years  at  Brussels,  im- 
mured within  his  house,  without  any  other  amusement 
than  that  of  collecting  a  magnificent  cabinet  of  paint- 
ipgs  and  pictures. 

Under  the  confinement  even  of  the  dungeon  itself, 
men,  deprived  forever  of  their  liberty,  endeavour  to 
beguile  the  solitude  in  which  they  are  forced  to  live, 
by  devoting  their  thoughts,  as  far  as  they  are  able,  to 
those  pursuits  which  afford  them  the  highest  pleasure. 
The  Swiss  philosopher,  Michael  Due  ret,  measured 
the  height  of  the  Alps  during  his  confinement  in  the 
prison  of  Aarburg,  in  the  canton  of  Berne,  in 
SwissERLAND  ;  and  while  Baron  de  Trenck,  a 
prisoner  in  the  tower  ©f  Magdebourg,  was  e very- 
moment  anxiously  employed  in  forming  projects  to 
effect  his  escape.  General  Walrave,  the  compan- 
ion of  his  captivity,  contentedly  passed  his  time  in  the 
feeding  of  chickens. 

The  term  Solitude  does  not,  I  conceive,  always 
import  a  total  absence  from  the  world.  Sometimes  it 
conveys  to  my  mind  the  idea  of  dwelling  in  a  convent, 
pi^  a  country  village  ;  sometimes  I  understand  it  tQ 


1^  T>IE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

.mean  the  library  of  a  mail  of  learning  :  and  sometimes 
an  occasional  retreat  from  the  tumults  of  active  life. 

Men  arc  frequently  Solitary  without  being  alone  ; 
for  to  constitute  a  state  of  Solitude,  it  is  sufiicient  if 
the  mmd  be  entirely  absorbed  by  those  ideas  which 
Its  own  reflections  create. 

The  haughty  Baron,  proud  of  ^he  distinctions  of 
birth,  feels  himself  alone  in  every  society  whose  mem- 
bers are  not  ennobled  by  an  equal  number  of  titles 
derived  through  a  long  line  of  hereditary  descents.  A 
profound  reasoner  is,  in  general,  Solitary  at  the  tables 
of  the  witty  and  the  gay.  The  mind,  even  amidst 
the  clamours  of  a  popular  assembly,  may  withdraw  its 
attention  from  the  surrounding  objects,  may  retire  as 
effectually  within  itself,  may  become  as  SoHtary  as  a 
monk  in  his  monastery,  or  a  hermit  in  his  cell.  In 
short.  Solitude  may  be  as  easily  attained  amidst  the 
gayest  circles  of  the  most  brilliant  city,  as  in  the  unin- 
terrupted silence  of  a  poor,  deserted  village  ;  at 
London  and  at  Paris,  as  well  as  on  the  plains  of 
Thebais  or  in  the  desartsof  Nitiiia. 

A  treatise  therefore  upon  the  real  advantages  to  be 
derived  from  Solitude,  appeared  to  mjs  a  proper  means 
to  assist  men  in  their  search  after  happiness.  The 
fewer  external  resources  men  possess,  the  greater  ef- 
forts they  make  to  discover  in  themselves  the  power 
of  being  happy  ;  and  the  more  they  are  enabled  to 
part,  without  regret,  from  their  connections  with  each 
other,  "the  nearer  they  most  certainly  approach  to  true 
felicity.  The  pleasures  of  the  world  appear  to  me  to 
be  unworthy  of  the  avidity  with  which  they  are  pur- 
sued ;  but  it  is  equally  true,  that  upon  a  serious  ex- 
amination, all  those  Catholic  notions,  once  so  celebrated, 
of  a  total  seclusion  from  the  world  and  its  concerns,  ap- 
pear altogether  impracticable,  and  equally  absurd.  To 
render  the  mind  independent  of  human  assistance,  and 
teach  it  to  rely  entirely  upon  the  strength  of  its  own 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.         ^         15 

pDwers,  is,  I  acknowledge,  a  noble  exertion  ;  but  it  is 
c  ertainly  as  meritorious,  to  learn  the  art  of  living  happi- 
ly in  the  bosom  of  society,  and  of  rendering  ourselves 
useftil  and  agreeable  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 

While,  therefore,  I  describe  the  allurements  oF 
Solitude,  I  shall  endeavour  to  warn  my  readers 
against  those  dangerous  excesses  into  which  some  of 
its  disciples  have  been  betrayed  ;  excesses  as  repug- 
nant to  the  voice  of  reason,  as  they  are  condemned  by 
the  precepts  of  our  holy  religion. 

Happily  to  avoid  all  the  dangers  by  which  my  sub- 
ject is  surrounded,  to  sacrifice  nothing  to  prejudice,  to 
advance  nothing  in  violation  of  truth,  to  obtain  the  ap- 
probation of  the  peaceful  disciples  of  reason  and  philo- 
sophy, will  be  my  anxious  endeavour  ;  and  if  alifliction 
shall  derive  a  ray  of  consolation  from  my  labours,  if 
melancholy,  in  forgetting  the  horrours  of  its  situation, 
shall  raise  its  dejected  head  to  bless  me  ;  if  I  shall  be 
able  to  convince  the  innocent  votaries  of  rural  retire- 
ment, that  the  springs  of  pleasure  soon  dry  up  in  the 
heat  of  the  metiopoUs,  that  the  heart  remains  cold  and 
senseless  in  the  midst  of  all  its  noisy  and  factitious  joys  ; 
if  they  shall  learn  to  feel  the  superior  pleasures  of  a 
coimtry  life,  become  sensible  of  the  variety  of  resources 
which  they  afford  against  idleness  and  vexation  ;  wliat 
purity  of  sentiment,  what  peaceful  thoughts,  v/hat  un- 
lading happiness,  the  view  of  verdant  meads,  the  sight 
of  numerous  flocks  and  herds  quitting  the  fertile  mea- 
dows on  the  close  of  day,  instil  into  the  mind  ;  with 
what  ineffable  delight  the  sublime  beauty  of  a  wild  ro- 
mantic country,  interspersed  with  distant  cottages,  and 
occupied  by  freedom  and  content,  ravishes  the  soul  ; 
how  much  more  readily,  in  short,  we  forget  all  the  pains 
and  troubles  of  a  wounded  heart,  on  the  borders  of  a  gen- 
tle stream,  than  amidst  the  concourse  of  deceitful  joys, 
so  fatally  followed  in  the  courts  of  princes,  my  task  will 
be  accomplished,  and  all  my  v/ishes  amply  gratutd  1 


i4  THE  INFLUEXGE    OF    SOLITUDI? 

CHA^PTER  THE  SECOJSm, 

THE    jGENEKAL    ADVAKTA^ES    OF    SOLITUDE, 


S. 


)OLlTUDE  engages  the  affections  of  men,  'wheiip 
ever  it  holds  up  a  picture  of  tranquility  to  their  view. 
The  doleful  and  monotonous  sound  of  the  clock  of  a 
sequestered  monastery,  the  silence  of  nature  in  a  still 
-ni:^ht,  the  pure  air  on  the  summit  of  a  high  mountain^ 
the  thick  darkness  of  an  ancient  forest,  the  sight  of  a 
temple  fallen  into  ruins,  inspire  the  soul  with  a  soft 
melancholy,  and  banish  all  recollection  of  the  world 
and  its  concerns.  But  the  man  who  cannot  hold  a 
friendly  correspondence  with  his  own  heart,  who  de- 
rives no  comfort  from  the  reflections  of  his  mind,  who 
dreads  the  idea  of  meditation,  and  is  fearful  of  passing 
a  single  moment  with  himself,  looks  with  an  equal 
eye  on  solitude  and  on  death.  He  endeavours  to  en« 
joy  all  the  voluptuousness  which  the  world  affords  ; 
drains  the  pernicious  cup  of  pleasure  to  its  dregs  ;  and 
until  the  dreadful  moment  approaches,  when  he  be- 
holds his  nerves  shattered,  and  all  the  powers  of  his 
soul  destroyed,  he  has  not  courage  to  make  the  delay- 
ed confession,  ^'  I  am  tired  o/'the  world,  and  allit3 
idle  follies^  and  no^v  flrejhr  the  mournful  shade  of  the 
cyfiress  to  the  hitoxication  of  its  noisy  pleasures  and- 
tumultuous  joys. '^■ 

The  dangers  to  which  a  life  of  Solitude  is  exposed, 
(for  even  m  Solitude  many  real  dangers  exist)  afford 
no  substantial  argument  against  it  ;  as  by  a  judicious 
employment  of  the  hours  of  activity  and  repose,  and  a 
proper  vigilance  upon  the  desires  of  the  heart,  they 
may  be  easily  eluded.  The  adventurous  navigator, 
when  acquainted  with  the  signal  of  approaching  dan- 
gers;  and  the  situation  of  those  rocks  and  shoals  whici 


6n  TflE    MIND    AND    TrfE    KEART.  15 

threaten  his  safety,  no  longer  fears  the  perils  to  whicli 
he  was  before  exposed.  The  advantages  of  Solitude 
are  still  less  disproved  by  the  complaints  of  those  who, 
feeling  a  continual  desire  to  escape  from  themselves^ 
are  incapable  of  every  enjoyment  but  what  th^  world 
aftbrds  ;  to  whom  retirement  and  tranquility  appear 
vapid  and  fatiguing  ;  and  who,  unconscious  of  any 
nobler  pleasure  than  that  of  paying  or  receiving  visits, 
have,  of  course,  no  idea  of  the  delights  of  Solitude. 

It  is,  therefore,  only  to  those  distinguished  beings 
"ivho  can  resort  to  their  own  bosoms  for  an  antidote 
against  disquiet,  wlio  are  fearless  of  the  numerous  sac- 
rifices which  virtue  may  demand,  whose  souls  are 
endowed  with  sufficient  energy  to  drive  away  the 
dread  of  being  alone,  and  whose  hearts  are  susceptible 
of  tlie  pure  and  tranquil  delights  of  domestic  felicity, 
that  I  pretend  to  recommend  the  advantages  of  Soli- 
tude. The  miserable  being,  in  wiiose  bosom  the 
corruptions  of  the  world  have  already  destroyed  these 
])recioas  gifts  of  nature  ;  who  knows  no  other  pleasure, 
is  sensible  to  no  other  happiness  than  what  cards  or 
the  luxury  of  a  richly-furnisiied  table  afford  ;  who 
disdains  all  exercise  of  the  understanding,  thinks  all 
delicacy  of  sentiment  unnatm^al,  and,  by  a  brutality  ai- 
inost  inconceivable,  laughs  at  the  sacred  name  of 
sensibility  ;  must  be  lost  to  virtue,  and  utterly  incapa- 
ble of  pleasure  from  any  operations  of  his  ovv^n  mind. 

Philosophers,  and  ministers  of  the  gospel,  if  they 
were  entirely  to  deprive  themselves  of  the  pleasures  of 
society,  and  to  shun,  with  rigid  severity,  the  honest 
comforts  and  rational  amusements  of  life,  would,  with- 
out doubt,  essentially  injure  the  interests  of  v/isdom 
and  virtue  ;  but  there  are  not,  at  present,  many  pre* 
ceptors  who  carry  their  doctrines  to  this  extent  :  on 
the  contrary,  there  exists  a  multitude,  both  in  the 
country  and  the  town,  to  whom  solitude  would  be  in- 
«upportabie,  who  shamefully  devote  their  time  to  noisy 


16  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDI^ 

dissipations  and  tumultuous  pleasures,  altogether  in- 
consistent with  their  characters  and  functions.  The 
celebrated  xra  has  passed,  when  a  life  of  retirement 
and  contemplation  was  alone  esteemed,  and  when  the 
approaches  to  heaven  were  measured  in  proportion  .as 
the  mind  receded  from  its  attachments  to  the  world. 

After  having  examined  the  influence  of  Solitude 
Upon  the  general  habits  of  life,  and  upon  those  ordina- 
ry pleasures  which  are  pursued  with  such  unceasing 
avidity,  I  shall  shew,  in  the  first  division  of  this  chap- 
ter, that  it  enables  man  to  live  independent  and  alone  ; 
that  there  is  no  misfortune  it  cannot  alleviate,  no  sor- 
row that  it  will  not  soften  ;  that  it  adds  dignity  to  his 
character,  and  gives  fresh  vigour  to  the  powers  of  his 
mind  ;  that  he  cannot,  in  any  other  situation,  acquire 
e.o  perfect  a  knowledge  of  himself ;  that  it  enlarges 
tlie  sphere  of  attention,  and  ripens  the  seeds  of  judge- 
ment :  in  short,  that  it  is  from  the  influence  of  Solitude 
alone,  that  man  can  l^ope  for  the  frtiition  of  unbroken 
plc'^isures,  and  never-fading  fehcity* 

The  enjoyments  of  active  life  may  easily  be 
blended  with  the  most  ordinary  advantages  of  Soli- 
tude ;  and  v/e  shall  soon  discover  upon  what  founda- 
tions the  opinions  of  those  philosophers  are  built,  who 
maintain,  that  the  tumults  of  the  world,  and  the  dissi- 
pation of  its  votaries,  are  incompatible  with  the  calm 
exercise  of  reason,  the  decisions  of  a  sober  judgement, 
the  investigation  of  truth,  and  the  study  of  the  human 
heart. 

Tlic  legion  of  fantastic  fashions  to  which  a  man  of 
pleasure  is  obliged  to  sacrifice  his  time,  impairs  the 
mtional  faculties  of  his  mind,  and  destroys  the  native 
energies  of  his  soul.  Forced  continually  to  lend  birn- 
.self  to  the  performance  of  a  thousand  little  triflings,  a 
thousand  mean  absurdities,  he  becomes  by  habit  frivo- 
lous and  absurd.  The  face  of  things  no  longer  w^ears 
its  true  and  genuine  aspect  ;  and  his  depraved  taste 


ON  THE    MIND    AXD    THE    HEART.  17 

loses  all  relish  for  rational  entertainment  or  substantial 
pleasure.  The  infatuation  seizes  on  his  brain,  and  his 
corrupted  heart  teems  with  idle  fancies  and  vain  ima- 
ginations. These  illusions,  however,  through  which 
the  plainest  object  coma's  distorted  to  his  view,  might 
easily  be  dispelled.  Accustomed  to  a  lonely  life,  and 
left  to  reflect  in  calmness  and  sobriety,  during  the  si- 
lence of  the  Solitary  hour,  upon  the  false  joys  and 
deceitful  pleasures  which  the  parade  ot"  visiting,  and  the 
glare  of  public  entertainments,  offer  to  our  view,  he 
would  soon  perceive  and  candidly  acknowledge  their 
nothingness  and  insipidity  :  soon  would  he  behold  the 
pleasures  of  the  world  in  their  true  colours,  and  feel 
that  he  had  blindly  wandered  in  pursuit  of  phantoms  ; 
possessing  something  in  appearance,  but  nothing  in 
reality. 

Languor  and  dissatisfaction  are  ever  the  inevitable 
consequences  of  this  ardent  pursuit  of  entertainments 
and  diversions.  He  who  has  drained  the  cup  of  pleas- 
ure to  its  last  drop  ;  who  is  obliged  to  confess  that  his 
hopes  are  fled,  and  that  the  world  no  longer  contains 
an  object  worthy  of  his  piu'suit  ;  who  feels  disappoint- 
ments and  disgust  mingled  with  all  his  enjoyments  ; 
who  seems  astonished  at  his  own  insensibility  ;  who 
no  longer  possesses  the  magic  of  the  enchantress 
Imagination  to  gild  and  decorate  the  scene  ;  calls^in 
vain  to  his  assistance  the  daughters  of  sensuality  : 
their  caresses  can  no  longer  charm  his  dark  and 
melancholy  mind  ;  the  soft  and  syren  song  of  luxury  no 
longer  can  dispel  the  cloud  of  discontent  which  hovers 
round  his  head. 

Behold  yon  weak  old  man,  his  mind  enervated,  and 
his  constitution  gone,  running  after  pleasures  that  he 
no  more  must  taste.  The  airs  of  gaiety  which  he  af- 
fects, render  him  ridiculous.  Plis  attempts  to  shine 
expose  him  to  derision.  His  endeavours  to  display 
the  Tvit  and  eloquence  of  youth,  betray  him  into  the 
B    2 


IS  THfe  INFLUEXGE   01?    SOLITUDE 

garrulity  of  old  age.  His  conversation,  filled  witii 
repetitions  and  fatiguing  narrative,  creates  disgust,  and 
.  only  forces  the  smile  of  pity  from  the  lips  of  his  youth- 
ful rivals.  To  the  eye  of  wisdom,  however,  that  saw 
him  through  all  the  former  periods  of  his  life,  spark- 
ling in  all  the  circles  of  folly,  and  rioting  in  the  noisy 
rendezvous  of  extravagance  and  vice,  his  character 
always  appeared  the  same. 

The  wise  man,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  tumultuous 
pleasures,  frequently  retires  within  himself,  and  si- 
lently compares  what  he  might  do  with  what  he  is 
doing.  Surrounded  even  hy  the  excesses  of  intoxica- 
tion, he  associates  only  with  those  warm  and  generous 
souls,  whose  highly  elevated  minds  are  drawai  towards 
each  other,  by  wishes  the  most  virtuous,  and  senti- 
ments the  most  sublime.  The  silence  of  Solitude  has 
inore  than  once  given  birth  to  enterprizes  of  the  great- 
est importance  and  utility  ;  and  some  of  the  most 
celebrated  actions  of  mankind  were,  perhaps,  first 
inspired  among  the  sounds  of  music,  or  conceived  in 
the  mazes  of  the  dance.  Sensible  and  elevated  minds 
never  commune  more  closely  with  themselves,  than 
in  those  places  of  public  resort  in  which  the  low  and 
the  vulgar,  abandoned  to  the  caprice  of  fcishion  and 
the  illusions  of  sensuality,  become  incapable  of  reflect- 
ion, and  blindly  sufier  themselves  to  be  overwhelmed 
hy  the  torrent  of  folly  and  distraction. 

Vacant  souls  are  always  burthensome  to  their  pos- 
sessors ;  and  it  is  the  weight  of  this  burthen  that  im- 
pels them  incessantly  in  the  pursuits  of  dissipation  for 
relief.  The  irresistible  inclination  by  which  they  are 
carried  continually  abroad,  the  anxiety  with  which 
they  search  for  society,  the  trifles  on  which  from  day 
to  day  they  s]xnid  their  time,  announce  the  emptiness 
of  their  minds,  and  the  frivolous  affections  of  their 
hearts.  Possessing-  no  resources  within  themselves^ 
tfeey  are  forced  toi^oYC  abroad,  ^A  fastenupon  CY^^r^ 


ON  THE    MINO    A««    THE   flEAUT.  W 

object  that  presents  itself  to  their  view,  until  they  find 
the  wished-for  harbour,  to  protect  them  agauist  th« 
attacks  of  discontent,  and  prevent  them  from  reflecting 
on  their  ignoble  ccndition. 

The  enjoyments  of  sense,  therefore,  are  thus  inde- 
fatigably  followed  only  as  a  mean  of  escaping  from 
themselves.  They  seize  with  avidity  upon  every  ob-- 
ject  that  promises  to  occupy  the  preseiit  hour  agieea- 
bly,  and  provide  entertainment  for  the  day  that  is 
passing  over  their  heads  :  this  must  ever  be  some 
external  object,  some  new  phantom,  something  that 
shall  prevent  them  from  remainiiig  with  themselves* 
The  man  whose  mind  is  sufliciently  fertile  to  invent, 
hour  after  hour,  new  schemes  of  pleasure  ;  to  open, 
day  after  day,  fresh  sources  of  amusement  for  the  lazy 
and  luxurious,  is  a  valuable  companion  indeed  ;  he  is 
their  best,  their  only  friend  :  not  that  they  are  them- 
selves destitute  of  ability  to  find  such  employment  as^ 
might  prevent  the  total  sacrifice  of  time,  and  relieve 
their  bosoms  from  the  burthen  of  themselves  ;  but 
having  always  indulged  the  inclination  of  being  led 
continually  from  one  new  object  to  another,  the  call  of 
pleasure  becomes  the  first  want  and  most  ardent  wish 
of  their  Hves.  From  that  moment,  they  insensiWy 
lose  the  power  of  acting  from  themselves,  and  depend 
for  every  thing  on  those  about  them,  without  bein<g 
able  to  direct  or  determine  the  impressions  they  ought 
to  receive.  This  is  the  reason  why  the  rich,  who 
are  seldom  acquainted  with  any  other  pleasures  than 
tliose  of  sense,  are,  in  general,  the  most  miserable  of 
men. 

The  nobility  and  courtiers  of  France  think  their  en-' 
■joy ments  appear  vain  and  ridiculous  only  to  those  who 
ba\c  not  an  opportunity  of  partaking  thorn  ;  but  I  aia 
of  a  dii]ferent  opinion. 

Returning  one  Sunday  from  Trianon  to  Ver*-- 
I^MLi^s,  I pei'odvejsl at  9, 4i»taacej  apumber  gf  people 


20  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

assembled  upon  the  terrace  of  the  castie  ;  and  on  a 
nearer  approach,  I  belield  Louis  the  Fifteenth, 
surrounded  by  all  his  court,  at  the  windows  of  tlie 
palace.  A  man  very  richly  dressed,  with  a  large  pair 
of  branching  antlers  fastened  on  his  head,  whom  they 
called  the  stag,  v/as  pursued  by  about  a  dozen  others, 
who  composed  the  tack.  Tiie  pursued  and  the  pur- 
suers leaped  into  the  great  caw ai,  scrambled  out  again^ 
and  ran  about  to  all  parts,  while  the  air  resounded  with 
the  acclamations  of  clapping  of  hands,  to  encourage 
the  continuance  of  the  sport.  "  What  can  all  this 
mean  ?"  said  I  to  a  Frenchman  v/ho  stood  near  me. 
."  Sir,"  he  replied  with  a  very  serious  countenance, 
"  it  is  for  the  entertainment  of  the  court." 

The  most  obscure  and  indigent  persons  are  certainly 
happier  than  these  sovereigns  of  the  world,  Find  their 
slavish  retinue,  when  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  adopt- 
ing such  mean  and  abject  modes  of  entertainment. 

The  COURTIER,  when  he  appears  at  a  levee,  out- 
wardly affects  the  face  of  joy,  while  his  heart  is 
inwardly  a  prey  to  tlie  most  excruciating  sorrows  ; 
and  speaks  '\vith  the  liveliest  interest  of  transactions  in 
which  he  had  no  concern  ;  butperiiaps  it  is  necessary 
to  his  consequence  that  he  should  raise  false  appear- 
ances to  the  minds  of  his  visitors,  who,  on  their  side, 
impose  equally  on  him  in  return.  The  success,  alas  ! 
of  all  his  schemes  affords  him  no  other  pleasure  than 
to  see  his  apartments  crowded  vvith  company,  whose 
only  merit  and  recommendation,  in  his  eyes,  is  a  string 
of  hereditary  titles,  of  perhaps  no  very  remote  antiqui- 
ty, or  honorable  origin. 

On  this  privation  of  the  light  of  human  reason  do 
the  felicities  of  a  worldly  life  most  frequently  depend. 
From  this  dark  source,  spring  the  inordinate  pride  of 
the  haughty  noble^  and  the  no  less  unbounded  ambi- 
tion of  the  simple  mechanic.  Flence  arise  the  disdain 
of  some,  the  haughtiness  of  others,  and  the  folly  of  allj 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART*  Si 

To  men  of  dissipated  minds,  who  dread  beyond 
every  other  fear,  the  painful  intrusion  of  a  rational 
sentiment,  these  numerous  and  noisy  places  of  public 
resort,  appear  like  temples  dedicated  to  their  idol, 
pleasure.  He  who  seeks  happiness  on  the  couch  of 
indolence  ;  who  expends  all  the  activity  of  his  mind, 
ail  the  energies  of  his  heart,  upon  trifling  objects  ;  who 
suiters  vain  and  frivolous  pursuits  to  absorb  his  time> 
to  engage  his  attention,  to  lock  up  all  the  functions  of 
his  soul,  cannot  patiently  endure  the  idea  of  being  for 
one  moment  by  himself. 

Direful  condition  !  Is  there  then  no  occupation 
whatsoever,  no  useful  employment,  no  rational  recre- 
ation sufficiently  high  and  dignified  for  such  a  charac- 
ter ?  Is  he  of  necessity  reduced  to  the  afflicting 
situation  of  not  being  able  to  perform  a  good  and  vir- 
tuous action,  during  the  intervals  of  suspended 
pleasure  ?  Can  he  render  no  services  to  friendship  1 
to  his  country  !  to  himself  ?  Are  there  no  poor  and 
miserable  beings,  to  whose  bosoms  he  might  afford 
a  charitable  comfort  and  relief  ?  Is  it,  in  short,  im- 
possible lor  such  a  character  to  become,  in  any  way, 
more  wise  or  virtuous  than  he  was  before  ? 

TJie  powers  of  the  human  soul  are  more  extensive 
than  they  are  in  general  imagined  to  be  ;  and  he  who, 
urged  by  inclination  or  compelled  by  necessity,  most 
frequently  exerts  them,  will  soon  find  tha^  the  highest 
felicities  of  which  our  nature  is  capable,  reside  entire- 
ly within  ourselves.  The  wants  of  life  are,  for  the 
greater  part,  merely  artificial  ;  and  although  sensual 
objects  most  efficaciously  contribute  to  our  pleasure 
and  content,  it  is  not  because  the  enjoyment  of  them  is 
absolutely  necessary,  but  because  they  have  been  ren- 
dered desirable  by  the  effect  of  habit.  The  gratifica- 
tions they  aiTord  easily  persuade  us,  that  the  posses- 
sion of  them  is  essential  to  happiness  ;  but  if  we  had 
fortitude  to  resist  their  charmsj  and  courage  to  look 


!^2 


THE  INFLUENCE    OF   SOLtTUDfi 


within  our  own  bosoms  for  that  felicity  which  we  so 
anxiously  expect  to  derive  from  external  objects,  we 
srhoukl  frequently  find  a  much  greater  variety  of  re- 
sources there  than  all  the  objects  of  sense  are  capable 
of  affording. 

Men  of  superficial  minds  may  indeed  derive  some 
rfmusements  from  assemblies,  to  which  the  company 
in  general  resort  merely  to  see  and  to  be  seen.  But 
how  many  women  of  fashion  expire  in  such  assem- 
blies, under  all  the  mortification  of  disappointed  vani- 
ty ?  how  many  neglected  wits  sullenly  retire  into  some 
dbscure  corner  of  the  room  ?  The  mind,  en  entering 
the  circles  of  the  great  and  gay,  i$  apt  to  flatter  itseif 
too  highly  with  hopes  of  applause  ;  to  wait  with  toa 
much  anxiety  for  the  promised  pleasure.  Wit,  co- 
quetry, sensuality,  it  is  true,  are  at  these  meetings^ 
fi'equently  exercised  with  considerable  success.  Eve-^ 
ry  candidate  displays  the  little  talent  he  possesses,  to 
the  best  advantage  ;  and  the  least  informed  are  not  un- 

frequently  considered  the  most  shining  characters • 

The  eye,  however,  may  occasionally  be  gratified  by  the 
sight  of  objects  really  agreeable  ;  the  ear  may  listent 
to  observations  truly  flattering.  Lively  thoughts  and 
sjensible  remarks,  now  and  then  prevail.  Charac-* 
ters  equally  amiable  and  interesting,  occasionally  mix 
among  the  groupe.  We  may  form  acquaintance  v/ith 
men  of  distinguished  merit,  whom  We  should  not  oth-^ 
drwise  have  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  ;  and  meet 
with  women  of  estimable  qualities  and  irreproachable 
conduct,  whose  refined  conversation  ravishes  the  mind 
with  the  same  delight  that  their  exquisite  beauty  cap- 
tivates the  heart. 

But  by  what  a  number  of  painful  sensations  must 
tliis  change  of  pleasures  be  purchased  !  He  whom  a 
silent  sorrow,  a  secret  discontent,  a  rational  dispositionr 
prevents  from  mixing  in  the  common  dissipations  of 
Hfe,  cannot  see  without  a  sigh  the  §;ay  conceit,  the  air/ 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  2S 

^.onfidence,  the  blind  arrogance,  and  the  bold  loqnacityj 
with  which  these  votaries  of  worldly  pleasures  proclaim 
a  felicity,  that  leads  them,  almost  inevitably  to  their 
ruin. 

It  is  indeed,  irresistably  laughable  to  observe  the 
excessive  joy  of  so  many  men  in  place,  the  absurd  airs 
of  so  many  old  dowagers,  the  presumptuous  and  ridic- 
ulous fopperies  of  so  many  hoary -headed  children  : 
but  who,  alas  1  is  there,  that  will  not  grow  tired  even 
of  the  pleasantest  comedy,  by  seeing  it  too  frequently  ? 
He,  therefore,  who  has  often  been  an  eye-witness  of 
these  scenes,  who  has  often  yawned  with  fatigue  in 
these  temples  of  pleasure,  and  is  convinced  that  they 
exhibit  rather  the  illusion  and  appearance  than  the 
substance  and  reality  of  pleasure,  becomes  sad  and  sor- 
rowful in  the  midst  of  all  their  joys,  and  hastily  retires 
to  domestic  privacy,  to  taste  of  pleasures  in  which  there 
is  no  deceit ;  pleasures,  which  leave  neither  disquiet- 
ude nor  dissatisfaction  behind  them. 

An  invitation  to  the  board  of  Luxury,  w^here  Dis- 
ease with  leaden  sceptre  is  known  to  preside,  where 
painful  truths  are  blurted  in  the  ears  of  tiiose  who  hop- 
ed they  were  concealed,  where  reproach  and  calumny 
fall  without  discrimination  on  the  best  and  worst  of 
characters,  is  in  the  estimation  of  the  world,  conceived 
to  confer  the  highest  honour,  and  the  greatest  pleasure. 
But  he  who  feels  the  divine  energies  of  the  soul,  turns 
with  abhorrence  from  those  societies  which  tend  to  di- 
minish or  impair  their  operations.  To  him  the  sim- 
plest fare,  with  freedom  and  content,  in  the  bosoms  ojf 
an  affectionate  family,  is  ten  thousand  times  more 
agreeable  than  the  rarest  dainty  and  the  richest  wine, 
with  a  society  where  politeness  imposes  a  silent  atten- 
tion to  some  vain  wit,  from  whose  hps  nothing  but  fa- 
tiguing nonsense  ever  proceeds. 

Confidence  unlimited,  sentiments  mutually  inter- 
changed and  equally  sincere;^  are  the  only  sources  frojgfi 


24  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

%vhich  the  true  pleasures  of  society  can  spring.  The 
spiritless  and  crov/ded  assemblies  of  the  world,  where 
a  round  of  low  and  little  pleasures  fills  the  hour  of  en- 
ter lainment,  and  pride  only  aspires  to  display  a  pomp 
of  dress  and  levity  of  behaviour,  may  perhaps  afford 
a  c^limpse  of  joy  to  ]i[>'ht  and  thoughtless  minds,  eager- 
ly impatient  to  remove  the  v/eip,ht  which  every  vacant 
hour  accumulates.  But  m.en  of  reason  and  reflection, 
who  instead  of  sensible  convei^sation,  instead  of  any  ra- 
tional amusemecit,  find  only  a  dull  unvaried  jargon,  a 
tiresome  round  of  compliments,  feel  aversion  from 
these  temples  of  delight,  and  resort  to  them  v/ith  cold- 
ness, dissatisfaction,  and  disgust. 

Hov/  tiresome  do  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  ap- 
pear, when  compared  with  the  happiness  of  a  faithful, 
tender,  and  enlightened  friendship  !  How  joyfully  do 
we  shake  of  the  shackles  of  society  for  that  high  and 
intimate  connection  of  the  soul,  vrhere  our  inclinations 
are  free,  our  feelings  genuine,  our  sentiments  unbias- 
sed ;  where  a  mutual  confidence  of  thoughts  and  ac- 
tions, of  pleasures  and  of  pains,  uninterruptedly  pre- 
vails ;  where  the  heart  is  led  with  joy  along  the  path 
of  virtue,  and  the  mind  conducted  by  happiness  into  the 
bowers  of  truth  ;  where  every  thought  is  anticipated 
before  it  escapes  from  the  lips ;  where  advice,  consola- 
tion, succour,  are  reciprocally  given  and  received  in  all 
the  accidents  and  misfortunes  ol  life  !  The  soul,  thus 
animated  by  the  charm  of  friendship,  springs  from  its 
sloth  and  apathy,  and  views  the  irradiating  beams  of 
hope  breaking  on  its  repose.  Casting  a  retrospective 
eye  on  the  time  that  has  passed,  the  happy  pair  mu- 
tually exclaim  with  the  tenderest  emotions,  "  Oh  ! 
*'  what  pleasures  have  we  not  already  experienced, 
^'  what  joys  have  we  not  already  felt  ?"  Does  the  tear 
of  sorrow  steal  down  the  cheek  of  the  one  ?  the  other, 
with  affection  wipes  it  tenderly  away.  The  deepest 
sorrows  of  the  one  are  felt  with  equj^l  poignancy  by 


ON  rnt   MIND    AND    THE   HEART.  4l 

the  otlier  :  but  what  sorrow  can  resist  the  consolation 
which  flows  from  an  intercourse  of  hearts  so  tenderly, 
50  intimately,  so  closely  united  !  Day  after  day,  thejr 
communicate  to  each  other  all  that  they  have  seen,  all 
that  they  have  heard,  all  they  feel  and  every  thing 
they  know.  Time  flies  before  them  on  his  swiftest 
pinions.  Tlie  ear  is  never  tired  of  the  gratincaiion 
of  listening  to  each  other's  conversation.  The  only 
misfortune  of  which  they  have  any  fear,  is  the  greatest 
they  can  possibly  experience,  the  misfortune  of  ab-*. 
sence,    separation,  and  death. 

Possessed  of  such  refined  felicity,  it  must  not  be  at- 
tributed to  austerity  of  character,  or  incivility  of  man- 
ners, but  to  a  venial  error  of  imagination,  if  the  inter- 
courses of  ordinary  minds  no  longer  charm  us  ;  if  we 
become  insensible  to  their  indifterence,  and  careless  of 
their  aversion  ;  if  in  consequence  of  the  superiority  of 
our  joys  we  no  longer  mix  in  the  noisy  pleasures  of 
the  world,  and  sliun  all  society  which  has  numbers  on- 
ly for  its  recommendation. 

But  it  is  the  lot  of  human  bliss  to  be  unstable.  Of- 
tentimes, alas  !  when  we  conceive  our  enjoyments 
most  certain  and  secure,  an  unforeseen  and  sudden 
blow  strikes,  even  in  our  very  arms,  the  unhappy  vic- 
tim of  its  fate.  On  such  an  event  all  the  pleasure  of 
our  lives  appears  to  be  forever  extinguished  ;  the  sur- 
rounding" objects  seem  desert  and  forlorn;  everything 
we  behold  excites  terror  and  dismay.  The  arms  of 
friendship  are  in  vain  extended  to  embrace  the  friend 
that  is  no  mere  ;  in  vain  the  voice  of  fondness  articu- 
lates the  beloved  name.  The  step,  the  well-knovvn 
step  seems  suddenly  to  strike  upon  our  listening  ear  ; 
but  reflection  hiterposes,  and  the  fetucied  sounds  are 
heard  no  more  :  all  is  hushed,  still,  and  lifeless  :  v/e 
are  rendered  almost  insensible  of  existence.  Solitude 
appears  on  every  side,  and  the  bleeding  heart  with- 
draws the  attention  of  the  mind  from  every  living 

G 


55  l^TxT.  INYI^yjlNCE    Off   SOLITUDE 

object.  The  wearied  spirits,  in  the  hour  of  dejection, 
persuade  us  that  affection  is  gone,  and  that  we  are  no 
longer  capable  of  lovini^,  or  of  being  belored  ;  and  tp 
a  heart  that  has  once  tasted  the  sympathies  of  love,  life 
without  affection,  is  death  the  most  horrible.  The 
unfortunate  being,  therefore,  who  has  experienced 
this  misery,  is  inclined  to  live  in  Solitude,  and  die 
alone.  In  these  reflectivfe  moments,  in  this  sudden 
transition  from  the  height  of  happiness  tothe  deepest 
misery,  no  person  seems  anxious  to  offer  him  the 
smallest  consolation,  to  participate  in  his  sufferings,  or 
to  be  capable  of  forming  an  adequate  idea  of  his  dis? 
tress  ;  the  grief,  indeed,  which  such  a  loss  inflicts, 
cannot  be  conceived  until  it  has  been  felt. 

It  is,  however,  under  circumstances  like  these  that 
Solitude  enjoys  its  highest  triumph  :  It  is  here  that 
all  the  advantages  that  result  from  it  may  be  fully 
experienced  ;  for  affliction  has  no  wounds  to  which,^ 
when  wisely  applied,  it  will  not  givd  immediate  ease, 
and  in  the  event  completely  cure. 

The  wounds  of  affliction,  it  is  true,  admit  only  of  a 
slow  and  gradual  remedy.  The  art  of  living  alone 
requires  so  much  initiation  before  it  can.  be  acquired, 
is  subject  to  such  a  variety  of  accidents,  and  depends 
so  much  upon  situations  suitable  to  the  bent  of  parti- 
cular characters,  that  the  mind  must  have  attained  a 
high  degree  of  maturity  for  Solitude,  before  effects  so 
considerable  and  advantagous  can  be  expected  from  it ; 
but  he  who  has  acquired  sufficient  vigour  to  break  the 
galling  chains  of  prejudice,  and  from  his  earliest 
youth  has  felt  esteem  and  fondness  for  the  pleasures 
of  retirement,  will  not,  under  such  circumstances,  be 
embarrassed  in  his  choice.  From  the  moment  he 
perceives  himself  indilTerent  to  the  objects  which  sur- 
round him,  and  that  the  gaieties  of  public  society  have 
lost  their  charms,  he  will  then  rely  on  the  powers  of 
his  soul,  and  never  be  less  alone  than  in  the  pompany 
«f  himself. 


6K  tllE    i^IND    AND    THE    HEART.  Z7 

Men  of  genius  are  frequently  condemned  to  em- 
ployments as  disagreeable  to  the  temper  of  their  minds, 
as  a  nauseous  medicine  is  to  an  en^pty  stomach. 
Forced  to  toil  upon  some  dry  and  disgusting  subject, 
confined  to  a  particular  spot,  and  utterly  unable  to 
release  themselves  from  the  trGfiblesonie  and  imped- 
ing yoke,  such  characters  seldom  expect  tranquihty 
on  this  side  of  the  grave  ;  for  deprived  of  the  oppor- 
tunities of  engaging  in  the  dissipations  of  life,  every 
object  which  the  world  presents  to  their  view  encreases 
their  disgust.  It  is  not  for  them,  they  exclaim, 
that  the  young  zephyrs  open  the  budding  foliage  with 
their  caressing  breath  :  that  the  feathered  choir  put 
forth,  in  enlivening  strains,  their  rural  songs  ;  that 
odoriferous  flowers  deck  the  enamelled  meads.  But 
leave  these  compkunants  to  themselves,  give  them 
their  liberty  and  liesure,  and  you  would  soon  observe 
the  native  enthusiasin  of  their  minds  regenerate,  and 
see  them  in  the  highest  region,  soaring  with  the  bold 
wing  and  penetrating  eye  of  the  bird  of  Jove. 

If  Solitude  be  capable  of  dissipating  griefs  of  this 
complexion,  what  effect  will  it  not  produce  on  the 
minds  of  men  who  have  the  opportunity  of  retiring,  at 
pleasure,  to  its  friendly  shades,  who  only  seek  for  the 
enjoyment  of  a  pure  air,  and  whose  only  desire  is  do- 
mestic felicity  ?  When  Antis thenes  was  asked  what 
service  he  had  received  from  philosophy  ;  he  answer- 
ed, '•  It  has  taught  me  to  subdue  myself."  Pope. 
tays,  that  he  never  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow  without 
reflecting,  that  the  most  important  lesson  of  life  vras 
to  learn  the  art  of  being  happy  witiiin  him'self.  It 
seems  to  me,  that  all  those  who  are  capable  of  living 
contentedly  at  home,  and  of  loving  every  object  by 
which  they  arc  surrounded,  even  to  the  dog  and  cat, 
iiave  found  what  Pope  looked  for. 

Those  pleasures  and  dissipations  which  are  sought 
iifter  v.ith  %o  much  eagerness  and  ^^xicty,  have  m 


2$  THE  INFLUENCE    QE    SOLITUDE 

truth,  the  effect  of  producing*  the  most  serious  re* 
flections  in  our  minds,  when  we  commune  with 
ourselves.  It  is  then  that  we  learn  in  what  the  true 
felicity  of  life  properly  consists,  whether  in  the  pos- 
session of  those  external  objects  which  we  have  no 
power  either  to  alter  or  reform,  or  in  a  due  and  proper 
regulation  of  ourselves.  It  is  then  that  we  begin  to 
perceive  how  false  and  faithless  those  flattering  illu- 
sions prove,  which  seem  to  promise  us  so  much  hap- 
piness. A  lady,  possessed  of  youth  and  beauty,  wrote 
to  me  one  evening,  on  returning  from  a  celebrated  ri- 
dotto,  "  You  observed  with  what  gaiety  and  content  I 
<«  quitted  the  scene.  Believe  me,  I  felt  a  void  so  pain- 
<'  ful  in  my  breast  at  the  sight  of  those  factitious  joys, 
'^  that  I  could  willingly  have  torn  the  flowery  decora- 
*'  tions  from  my  dress." 

All  the  pleasures  of  the  world  are  nothing,  if  they 
do  not  render  the  heart  more  happy  in  itself,  and  tend 
to  increase  our  domestic  felicity.  On  the  contrary, 
every  species  of  misfortune,  however  accumulated, 
irjay  be  borne  by  those  who  are  capable  of  enjoying 
the  privacy  of  study,  and  the  elegant  recreation  which 
books  afford.  To  have  obtained  this  resource,  is  al- 
ready to  have  made  considerable  advances  towards 
happiness  ;  for  it  would  be  presumptuous  to  exact 
more  from  us,  than  an  inclination  to  regulate  the  af- 
fections of  the  heart,  and  to  controul  the  passions  of 
the  mind.  A  celebrated  philosopher,  therefore,  has 
with  great  judgment  observed,  that  there  is  both  pride 
and  falsehood  in  pretendmg  that  man  alone  is  capable 
of  effecting  his  own  happiness.  We  are,  however, 
most  certainly  capable  of  modifying  the  natural  dispo- 
sitions of  our  souls  ;  we  are  capable  of  forming  our 
tastes,  varying  our  sentiments,  directing  our  inclina- 
nations,  of  subduing  even  the  passions  themselves  ; 
and  we  are  then,  not  only  less  sensible  of  all  the  wants 
of  life,  but  feel  even  satisfaction  under  circumstances 


ON  THIS    MIND    AND    THJi   MEAHT.  29 

livlilch  to  Others  would  appear  grievous  and  intolera- 
ble. Health  is,  without  doubt,  one  of  the  jnost  pre- 
cious enjoyments  man  can  possess  ;  and  yet  there  are 
circumstances  and  situations,  under  which,  even  the 
privation  of  it  may  be  accompanied  with  real  tranqui- 
lity. How  many  times  have  I  returned  my  thanks  to 
the  Great  Disposer  of  human  events,  for  an  indisposi-^ 
tion  which  has  confined  me  at  home,  and  enabled  me 
to  invii^orate  the  weakened  functions  of  my  soul  in 
quietud<i  and  silence  ;  a  happiness  that  receded  as  my 
indisposition  quitted  me.  After  having  been  obliged 
to  drag  through  the  streets  of  the  metropolis  every 
day  of  my  life,  during  a  number  of  years,  with  a  fee- 
ble constitution,  and  weakened  limbs,  susceptible  on 
feeling  the  smallest  cold,  to  the  same  sensations  as  if 
kuives  Were  separating  the  flesh  from  the  bone  ;  after 
experiencing,  day  after  day,  in  the  course  of  my  pro- 
fessions, sorrows  so  aillicting,  that  I  offered  up  the 
gratitude  of  my  heart  with  tears  of  joy,  when  it  pleas- 
ed the  Almighty  to  afford  me  a  moment  of  ease  and 
quietude  ;  it  will  not  be  wondered  that  any  indisposi- 
tion which  occasioned  my  confinement,  should  afford 
me  inexpressible  happiness. 

The  physician  who  possesses  the  least  sensibility, 
being  continually  employed  in  administering  relief  to 
the  sufferings  of  others,  must,  without  doubt,  fre- 
quently forget  his  own  ;  but,  alas  !  how  often  also 
must  he  feel  the  horrour  of  his  situation,  where  he  is 
summoned  to  exercise  a  power  not  within  the  reach  of 
his  art,  and  is  obliged  to  attend,  notwithstanding  all 
the  bodily  and  mental  anguish  he  may  personally  feel. 
Under  such  circumstances,  the  disease  which  relieves 
the  mind  from  the  distraction  of  anxiety,  is  to  me  a 
soft  repose,  a  pleasing  Solitude  ;  provided  peevish 
friends  do  not  intrude,  and  politely  disturb  me  with 
their  fatiguing  visits.  In  these  moments,  I  pray  the 
benediction  of  Heaven  on  those  whg  neglect  to  dvep- 
C  2  I 


30        THE  INFLUENCE  OF  SOLITUDE 

wlielm  ine  with  their  idle  conversation,  and,  with  the 
kindest  compassion,  forget  to  disturb  me  by  enquiries 
after  my  health.  A  single  day,  in  which  I  can  remain 
quietly  at  home,  without  being  obliged  to  receive  a 
visitor,  and  employ  my  mind  on  literary  subjects,  af- 
fords me,  notwithstanding  my  bodily  pain,  more  real 
pleasure  than  our  women  of  quality  and  men  of  fashion 
ever  felt,  from  all  their  feastings  and  entertainments. 

The  diminution  which  our  sufierings  experience  in 
Solitude,  is  in  itself  a  considi^rable  advantage  ;  for 
quietude  of  mind,  to  men  whose  duties  depend  on  the 
public  voice,  from  whom  an  indefatigable  activity  is 
exacted,  and  who  unavoidably  pass  their  days  in  the 
midst  of  continued  anxieties,  is  in  effect  transcendant 
felicity. 

The  mhid,  whether  of  the  young  or  of  the  -old,  no 
longer  feels  the  fear  of  being  alone,  when  it  is  capable 
of  occupying  itself  in  privacy,  on  some  useful  or 
agreeable  subject. 

If  the  temper  should  be  soured  by  ill-humour,  we 
should  endeavour  to  create  a  diversion  of  the  mind,  by 
reading  with  some  fixed  and  particular  design  ;  and  it 
is  impossible  to  i*ead  without  deriving  some  advantage, 
provided  we  have  a  pen  or  pencil,  ready  to  mark  the 
new  ideas  as  they  occur,  or  the  observations  which 
illustrate  and  confirm  those  we  already  possess  ;  for 
unless  we  apply  what  we  learn  to  our  own  dispositions, 
or  th€  characters  of  other  men,  study  of  any  kind  soon 
becomes  fatiguing  :  exercise,  however,  will  easily 
lead  to  this  habit  ;  and  then,  reading  is,  perhaps,  one 
of  the  most  sure  and  certain  remedies  against  lassitude 
and  discontent. 

The  mind  having  once  acquired  the  habit  of  fixing 
its  attention,  is  always  capable  of  driving  away  painful 
and  unpleasant  ideas.  The  sight  of  a  noble  and  inte- 
resting, object,  the  study  of  a  useful  science,  a  picture 
in  which  the  various  revolutions  of  society  are  histori- 


ON  THE    MIND    A^^3    TITE    HEART.  31 

cally  displayed,  and  the  progress  made  in  any  particu- 
lar art,  agreeably  rivet  attention,  and  banish  the 
sorrows  of  the  mind. 

Pleasures  of  this  description,  it  is  certain,  greatly 
transcend  all  those  which  administer  merely  to  the 
senses.  I  am  aware,  that  in  speaking  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  mind,  sublime  meditation,  the  profound  deduc- 
tions of  reason,  and  the  brilliant  effusions  of  fancy  are 
in  general  understood  ;  but  there  are  also  others,  for 
the  perfect  enjoyment  of  which,  neither  extensive 
knowledge  nor  extraordinary  talents  are  necessary* 
These  are  the  pleasures  which  result  from  activity 
and  employment  ;  pleasures  that  are  equally  within 
the  reach  of  the  ignorant  clown,  or  learned  philoso- 
pher, and  which  produce  enjoyments  no  less  exquisite 
than  those  we  first  mentioned  :  the  exertion  of  manuiil 
labour,  therefore,  ougiit  never  to  be  despised.  I  am 
acquainted  with  gentlemen  who  are  instructed  in  the 
mechanism  of  their  own  watches  ;  who  are  able  to 
work  as  painters,  locksmiths,  carpenters  ;  and  wJio 
are  not  only  furnished  with  tools  proper  to  almost 
every  branch  of  trade,  but  know  also  how  to  use  tliem. 
Such  characters  never  feel  the  least  disquietude  from 
the  want  of  society,  and  are,  in  consequence,  the 
happiest  of  men. 

The  labours  we  experience  in  nny  art  or  science, 
from  the  recreation  of  it,  and  when  carried  to  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  perfection,  render  man  social  with  him- 
self, and  counter])alance  the  greatest  moral  evik.  I'o 
conquer  difficulties  is  to  promote  our  pleasures  ;  and 
every  time  our  efforts  attain  to  a  certain  point,  from 
whence  we  can  view  with  complacency  the  end  of  our 
labours,  the  soul  feels  an  inexpressible  tranquility  and 
satisfaction,  and,  being  contented  within  itself,  seeks 
for  no  higher  pleasure. 

The  enjoyments  of  the  heart  are  within  the  reach 
of  all  men  who,  free,  easy  and  affectionatej  are  con- 


$^  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

tented  with  themselves,  and  pleased  with  those  about 
them.  Alas  !  how  much  superiour,  therefore,  for  this 
reason,  is  the  happiness  which  a  country  life  affords, 
to  that  deceitful  felicity  which  is  affected  in  the  courts 
of  Princes,  and  in  the  brilliant  circles  of  the  great  and 
gay  ;  a  truth  severely  felt  by  men  of  worldly  pleas- 
ure, and  confessed  by  their  frequent  complaints  o£ 
restlessness  and  languor — complaints  unknown  among 
the  vallies  of  the  Alps,  or  upon  those  mountains  where, 
innocence  yet  dwells,  and  which  no  visitor  ever  quitted 
without  the  tribute  of  a  tear. 

The  fatal  poison,  however,  which  lurks  beneath  the 
manners  of  luxurious  cities,  might  easily  be  avoided, 
by  renouncing  the  insipid  Hfe  in  which  the  inhabitants 
are  engaged.  Virtuous  actions  convey  tranquihty  to 
the  soul  ;  and  a  joy  equally  calm  and  permanent  ac- 
companies that  man  into  the  closest  recesses  of  retire- 
ment, whose  mind  is  fixed  upon  discharging  the  duties 
of  humanity.  With  what  delight,  also,  do  we  dwell 
upon  the  recital  of  our  school  adventures,  the  wanton 
tricks  of  our  youth  !  The  history  of  the  early  periods 
of  our  lives,  the  remembrance  of  our  plays  and  pas- 
times, of  the  little  pains  and  puerile  wishes  of  our  in- 
famcy,  always  recal  to  our  minds  the  most  agreeable 
rdeas.  Ah  !  with  what  complacent  sm;Ies,  with  wiiat 
soft  regret,  a  venerable  old  man  turns  his  eyes  upon 
the  happy  aera  when  the  incarnation  of  youth  animated 
all  his  joys  ;  when  he  entered  into  every  enterprize 
with  vigour,  vivacity  and  courage  ;  when  he  sought 
difficulties  only  to  displays  his  powers  in  surmounting 
them  ! 

Let  us  contrast  the  character  we  formerly  bore,  with 
that  which  we  at  present  possess  ;  or,  by  giving  » 
freer  range  to  oi^r  ideas,  let  us  rather  cast  our  tho'ts 
npon  the  various  events  of  which  we  have  been  wit- 
nesses, upon  the  means  which  the  Almighty  has 
thought  proper  to  employ  in  the  exaltation  or  debas*^- 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAHT.  55 

ment  of  empires  ;  upon  the  rapid  progress  which  the 
arts  and  sciences  have  made,  within  our  own  remem- 
brance ;  upon  the  advancement  of  philosophy,  and  the 
retreat  of  prejudice  ;  upon  the  ascendancy  which  ig-- 
norance  and  superstition  still  maintain,  notwithstand- 
ing the  sublime  efforts  of  genius  to  suppress  them  ; 
upon  the  bright  irradiations  of  intellect,  and  the  moral 
depravation  of  the  heart ;  and  w^e  shall  soon  perceive 
the  clouds  of  languor  disappear,  and  tranquility  peace, 
and  good  humour  prevail.  , 

The  inexpressible  felicity,  that  variety  of  delightful 
enjoyments,  so  superior  to  the  gratifications  of  sense, 
which  solitude  affords  to  every  reflecting  mind,  are  ca-- 
pable  of  being  relished  at  every  period  of  our  lives  ; 
in  the  last  decay  of  age,  as  well  as  in  the  earliest  prime 
of  youth.  He  who,  to  a  vigourous  constitution,  a  free 
spirit,  an  easy  temper,  has  added  the  advantages  of  a 
cultivated  understanding,  will  here  experience,  while 
his  heart  continues  pure  and  his  mind  innocent,  the 
highest  and  most  unalterable  pleasure.  The  love  of 
■exercise  animates  all  the  faculties  of  the  soul,  and  in» 
creases  the  energies  of  nature.  Employment  is  the 
first  desire  of  every  active  mind.  It  is  the  silent  con-^ 
sciousness  of  the  supenority  of  our  nature,  of  the 
force  of  our  intellectual  powers,  of  the  high  dignity  of 
our  character,  which  inspires  great  souls  with  that  no- 
ble ardour  which  carries  them  to  the  true  sublime.— 
Constrained,  by  the  duties  of  their  situation,  to  mix  in 
the  intercourses  of  society  ;  obliged  to  submit,  in 
spite  of  their  inclination,  to  the  frivolous  and  fatiguing 
■  dissipations  of  the  world  ;  it  is  in  withdrawing  from 
these  tumultuous  scenes,  into  the  silence  of  medita- 
tion, that  men  become  sensible  of  the  divine  efferv^s- 
ence  of  their  souls,  feel  a  wish  to  break  their  chains,  to 
escape  from  the  servility  of  pleasure,  and  from  all  the 
noisy  and  tumultuous  joys  in  which  they  are  ejigaged* 
We  never  feel  with  higher  energy  and  satisfaction* 


^4  ^'tit  in:^luei^ce  ti^  SoLtrciifi 

%tith  greater  comfort  and  cordiality, that  v*e  live, tljink^ 
tire  reasonable  beings,  self-active,  free,  capable  of  th« 
most  sublime  exertions,  and  partaking  of  immoitalitj, 
than  in  those  moments  when  we  shut  the  door  against 
the  intrusions  of  impertinence  and  fashion* 

There  are  few  vexations  so  insupportabie  as  those 
tasteless  visits,  those  annoying  partiahties,  by  which  a- 
lifi^  of  lazy  opulence  and  wanton  pleasure  is  occupied, 
*'  My  thoughts,*^  says  RossExIU,  "  will  only  come 
^'  when  they  please,  and  not  when  I  chtise."  Obliged^ 
therefore,  to  wait  for  their  arrival,  the  intrusion  of  a 
stranger,  or  even  the  visit  of  an  acquaintance  by  whom 
be  was-  not  intimately  known,  was  always  dreadful  ta 
him.  It  was  for  this  reason,  alone,  that  this  extraor- 
dinary character,  who  seldom  experienced  an  hour  of 
tranquility  unaccompanied  by  puin,  felt  a^uch  petulant 
indignation  against  the  importunate  civilities  and  empw 
ty  compliments  of  common  conversation,  while  he  en- 
joyed the  rational  intercourse  of  sensible  and  well  in- 
formed minds,  with  the  highest  delight.* 

How  soon,  alas  !  the  dignity  of  the  human  charac* 
ter  becomes  debased,  by  associutiivg  with  lov/  and  httle 
minds  !  How  many  rays  of  thought,  precious  rays  ! 
emanating  immediately  from  the  Deity,  upon  the  mind 
cf  man,  are  extinguished  by  the  noxious  vapour  of 
stagnated  life  I  But  it  is  meditatiorj  and  rcfiection 
that  must  give  them  birth,  elevate  them  to  the  lieights 
of  genius,  make  tliem  subsistent  v/ith  the  nature  cf 
the  human  x*iiND^  and  conformable  to  the  spirit  of  the 
buman  character. 

Virtues,  to  which  the  soul  cannot  rai^ic  itself,  ev^ 
en  in  the  most  amiable  of  all  societies,   are  frequently 

*  "  T  never  could  endure,''  says  Rosseau^  **  the  ewfity 
and  uumeaning  com'diments  of  common  convenanon  ; 
hat  from  conversations  useful  or  ingenion-H^  I  have  al^ 
ivays  derived  the  greatest  fika'Hire^  and  have  n^vtr  rtfu^ 
«*ctft  to  partiiijiuie  in  thenu'^ 


©Ur  THE    MIND    AND    THB    HEART.  55 

frotluced  by  soliiucje.  Separated,  by  distance,  from 
Gur  friends,  we  feel  ourselves  djprivcd  of  the  compit* 
ny  of  those  v/ho  jjredeaiTst  to  pur  hearts  ;  and  to  re- 
lieve the  dreary  void,  we  aspire  to  the  most  subhme 
efforts,  and  adopt  the  boldest  resolutions.  On  the  con- 
trary, while  we  are  under  the  protecting  care  of  friend- 
ship and  of  love,  while  their  kind  offices  supply  all 
our  wants,  and  their  affectionate  embraces  lock  us 
eternally  in  their  arms,  we  forget,  ip  the  blandishments 
jof  such  a  state,  almost  the  faculty  of  self-motion,  lose 
sight  of  the  power  of  acting  from  ourselves,  and  sel- 
dom reflect  that  v/e  may  be  reduced  to  the  necessity 
of  supporting  ourselves  under  the  adversities  of  life. 
To  guard  against  this  event,  therefore,  it  is  proper,  by 
retiring  into  Solitude,  to  experience  and  rely  upon  the 
tstrength  of  our  own  powers.  The  soul,  weakened  by 
the  storms  of  life,  then  acquires  new  vigour  ;  fixes  the 
steady  eye  of  fortitude  on  the  frov/ns  of  adversity,  and 
learns  to  elude  the  threatening  recks  on  which  the 
happiness  of  vulgar  minds  is  so  frequently  wrecked.---. 
He  who  devotes  his  days  to  Solitude,  fmds  resources 
within  himself  of  which  he  had  no  idea;  while  philo- 
sophy inspires  him  with  courage  to  sustain  the  most 
rigourous  shocks  of  fate. 

The  disposition  of  man  becomes  more  firm,  his  Of 
pinions  m.ore  determined  and  correct,  when,  urged -by 
the  tumults  of  life,  he  reflects,  in  the  quietude  of  his 
heart,  on  his  own  nature  and  the  manner  of  the  world. 
The  constitution  of  a  versatile  and  undecided  character 
proceeds  entirely  from  that  intellectual  weakness  which 
prevents  the  mind  from  thinking  for  itself  Such  char- 
acters consult  upon  every  occasion  the  oiiacle  of  pub- 
lic opinion,  so  infalliable  in  their  ideas,  before  they 
know  what  they  ought  to  think,  or  in  what  manner 
their  judgement  should  be  formed,  or  their  conduct 
regulated. 

Weak  minds  always  conceiVe  it  imiost  safe  to  adop$ 


3^6  TI¥E  INFLUENCE   Of   SOLtTTTCS 

the  sentiments  of  the  multitude.  They  never  vePiture 
an  opinion  upon  any  subject  until  the  majority  have 
deciclecL  These  decisions,  whether  upon  men  or 
things,  they  implicitly  follow,  without  giving  them* 
selves  the  trouble  to  enquire  who  is  right,  or  on  v/hich 
side  the  truth  lies.  The  spirit  of  truth,  and  love  of 
equity,  indeed,  are  only  to  be  expected  from  those 
who'  are  fearless  of  living  alone.  Men  of  dissipated 
minds  are  never  the  protectors  of  the  weak,  or  the 
avengers  of  the  oppressed.  Are  the  various  and* 
ix>werfiil  hosts  of  fools  and  knaves  your  enemies  ? 
Are  you  injured  in  your  property  by  injustice,  or  in 
your  fame  by  calumny  ?  You  must  not  hope  for  re- 
dress from  light  characters,  or  for  support  from  men 
of  dissipation ;  for  they  only  repeat  the  vqipe  of  errour, 
and  propagate  tlie  fallacies  of  prejudice. 

To  live  in  Solitude,  to  feel  ourselves  alone,  only  inf 
spires  fear,  inasmvich  as  it  contiibutes  to  extinguish 
one  corporeal  power  by  giving  birth  to  another.  The 
powers  of  the  niind,  on  the  contrary,  augment  in  pro-* 
portion  as  they  become  more  concentrated,  when  no 
person  is  united  to  us,  or  ready  to  afford  protection. 
To  live  undisturbed,  to  mitigate  the  suffering  of  pre*- 
sent  impressions,  to  render  the  mind  superior  to  the 
accidents  of  life^  and  to  gain  sufficient  intrepidity  to 
oppose  the  danger  of  adversity,  it  is  absolutely  neces* 
sary  "to  live  alone.  How  smoothly  ilov/s  the  stream  of 
life  when  we  have  no  anxiety  to  enquire,  "  Who  did 
this  ?"  "  Who  said  that  ?"  How  many  miserable  pre* 
judices,  and  still  more  contemptible  passions,  has  one' 
serious  reflection  subdued  1  How  quickly,  in  ^uch  ^ 
situation,  that  slavish,  shameful,  and  idolatrous  vene- 
ration for  every  unworthy  object  disappears  !  With 
what  noble  spirit  the  votary  of  Solitude  fearlessly  disi* 
dains  those  characters  who  conceive  that  high  birth 
and  illustrious  descent,  confer  a  privilege  to  tyrannize 
over  inferior  men,  to  whom  they  frequently  afford  SQ 
:^nany  reasons  to  hold  them  in  con  tempt* 


OIC  THE    MIIfD    AKD   THE    HEART*    "*  5T 

An  ingenious  and  celebrated  observer  of  men  and 
things  mtbnns  us,  it  is  in  leisure  and  retirement  alone^ 
that  the  soul  exalts  itself  into  a  sublime  superiority 
over  the  accidents  of  life,  becomes  indifferent  to  the 
good  or  evil  it  may  experience,  the  praise  or  censure 
U  may  receive,  the  life  it  may  enjoy,  or  even  the  death! 
it  may  suffer.  It  is  in  Solitude  alone  that  those  noble 
^nd  refined  ideas,  those  profound  principles  and  uner- 
ring axioms,  which  form  and  support  every  great 
character,  are  developed.  Even  philosophy  itself, 
continues  this  excellent  Philosopher,  in  his  observations 
Upon  Cicero,  and  those  deep  theories  upon  which  the 
3ublime  conduct  of  the  statesman  is  founded,  and  which 
enable  him  to  perform  with  excellence  the  important 
duties  with  which  he  is  charged,  are  formed  in  the  si- 
lence of  Solitude,  in  some  distant  retirement  from  the 
great  theatre  of  the  world. 

As  Sohtude,  therefore,  not  only  gives  firmness  t« 
tlie  characters,  and  propriety  to  the  sentiments  of  men, 
but  leads  the  mind  to  a  true  degree  of  elevation,  so 
likewise,  there  is  no  other  situation  in  which  we  so 
^oon  acquire  the  important  knowledge  of  ourselves. 

Retire MBNT  connects  us  more  closely  with  our 
own  bosoms,  and  we  live  in  habits  of  the  strictest  inti- 
macy only  with  ourselves.  It  is  certainly  possible  for 
men  to  be  deliberate  and  wise,  even  amidst  all  the  tu- 
mults of  the  world,  especially  if  their  principles  be 
well  fixed  before  they  enter  on  the  stage  of  life  ;  but 
it  is  much  more  difiicult  to  preserve  an  integrity  of 
conduct  amidst  the  corruptions  of  society,  than  in  the 
simplicity  of  Solitude.  How  many  men  please  only 
by  their  faults,  and  recommend  themselves  only  bjr 
their  vices  !  How  many  profligate  villains  and  unprin- 
cipled adventurers,  of  insinuating  manners,  are  v/ell 
received  by  society,  only  because  they  have  learnt  the 
art  of  administering  to  the  follies,  the  weaknesses,  the 
vices,  of  tlicse  who  ^ive  the  lead  to  fa«hioa  !  How  is 
D 


3€  THE  INFLUENCE   OF   SOUTUDB 

it  possible  that  the  mmd,  intoxicated  with  the  fumes  of 
tiiat  incense  which  flattery  burns  to  its  honour,  should 
be  capable  of  knowing  or  appreciating  the  characters 
of  men  1  But,  on  the  contrary,  in  the  silence  andtranr 
quility  ot'  retirement,  whether  we  are  led  by  inclination 
to  the  study  of  ourselves,  awakened  to  reflection  by  a 
sense  of  misery,  or  compelled  to  think  seriously  on 
our  situation,  and  to  examine  the  inward  complexion 
of  the  heart,  we  can  learn  what  we  are  and  what  we 
ought  to  be. 

How  many  new  and  useful  discoveries  may  be  made, 
by  occasionally  forcing  ourselves  from  the  vortex  of 
the  world,  to  the  calm  enjoyments  of  study  and  re- 
rlection  !  To  accomphsh  this  end,  it  is  only  necessary 
o  commune  seriously  with  our  hearts,  and  to  examine 
Hir  conduct  with  candour  and  impartiality.     The  man 
4'  worldly  pleasure,  indeed,   has  reason  to  shun  this 
elf-examination,  conscious  that  the  result  of  the  en- 
quiry would  be  extremely  unfavorable  :  for  he  who 
»ly  judges  of  himself  by  the  flattering  opinion  which 
ihers  have  been  pleased  to  express  of  his  character, 
ill,  in  such  a  scrutiny,  behold  with  surprize,  that  he 
5  the  miserable  slave  of  fashion,  habit,   and  public 
pinion  ;  submitting  with  laborious  diligence,  and  the 
itmost  possible  grace,  to  the  exactions  of  politeness, 
md  the  authoritative  demands  of  established  ceremo- 
ny ;  never  venturing  to  contradict  the  imperious  voice 
tf  fashion,  however  senseless  and  absurd  its  dictates 
fnay  appear  ;  obsequiously  following  the  example  of 
others,  giving  credit  to  every  thing  they  say,   doing 
every  thing  they  do,  and  not  daring  to  condemn  those: 
pursuits  which  every  one  seems  so  highly  to  approve. 
If  such  a  character  possess  that  degree  of  candour  he 
oughts  he  will  not  only  perceive,   but  acknowledge, 
that   an   infinite  number  of  his  daily   thoughts  and 
actions,  are  inspired  by  a  base  fear  of  himself,  or  arise 
from  ^  servile  complais^ae  to  otlaers  i  that  in  the 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HP.ART,  *>9 

-company  of  princes  raid  statesmen,  he  only  seeks  to 
Hatter  their  vanities,  and  indulge  their  caprices  ;  that 
by  his  devotion  to  politeness,  he  submits  to  become  the 
minister  of  their  vices,  ratlier  than  offer  them  the 
smallest  contradiction,  or  hazard  an  opinion  Avhich  is 
likely  to  give  them  the  least  displeasure.  Whoever 
with  calm  consideration  views  this  terrifying  picture, 
will  feel  in  the  silent  emotion  of  his  hea'rt,  the  necessity 
of  occasionally  retiring  into  Solitude,  and  seeking 
society  with  men  of  nobler  sentiments  and  purer 
principles. 

The  violent  alternatives  of  pleasure  and  pain,  of 
hope  and  fear,  of  content  and  mortification,  incessant- 
ly torment  the  mind  that  has  not  courage  to  rise 
superior  to  the  influence  of  the  objects  of  sense.  The 
virtues  fly  from  the  habitation  of  a  heart  that  yields  it- 
self to  first  impressions,  of  a  heart  that  is  forever 
obedient  to  the  feelings  of  the  moment,  and  incapable 
of  exerting  a  dominion  over  them.  The  virtues  also 
cease  to  dwell  in  the  bosoms  of  the  worldly,  who,  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  the  times,  are  guided  in  all 
their  actions  by  sinister  xnotives,  and  directed  to  every 
end,  by  the  mean  consideration  of  self  interest,  either 
.immediate  or  remote.  To  exercise  even  virtue  itself^ 
with  advantage  and  effect,  it  is  necessary  to  retire  into 
Solitude  :  to  avoid  the  impediments  which  the  acci- 
dents of  the  passing  day  may  create  ;  to  estimate,  by 
a  silent  examhiation,  the  true  vahie  of  things,  and  the 
real  merit  of  human  actions.  The  mind  debased  by 
the  corruptions  of  the  world,  has  no  idea  of  relinquish- 
ing the  prospect  of  present  benefit,  and  nrtakingafioble 
sacrifice  of  glory  and  of  fortune.  They  never  appre- 
ciate any  action  by  its  intrinsic  merit,  but  conduct  all 
their  calculations  upon  a  vile  notion  of  lucre,  and  only 
assume  the  garb  of  virtue  as  a  mean  of  snatching  some 
poor  advantpge,  obtaining  some  paltry  honour,  or 
gaining  some  serviceable  credit :  to  those  who,  from. 


40        THE  IKFLUENCE  OF  SOLITUDE 

their  power  and  superiority,  might,  if  they  tfere 
equally  base  and  contemptible,  prejudice  their  inte- 
rests, they  pay  a  servile  court,  flatter,  lie,  calumniate 
and  cringe,  and  depart  only  to  commit  new  baseness 
elsewhere. 

Man  discovers  with  deeper  penetration,  the  extent 
and  nature  of  the  passions  by  which  he  is  swayed, 
when  he  reflects  on  their  power  in  the  calmness  and 
silence  of  Solitude,  where  the  soul,  being  less  fre*- 
quenlly  suspended  between  hope  and  fear,  acts  with 
greater  freedom.  How  virtuous,  alas  !  do  we  all 
become,  under  the  pressure  of  calamity  !  How  sub- 
missive, how  indulgent,  how  kind  is  man,  when  the 
iinger  of  God  chastises  his  frailties,  by  rendering  his 
hopes  delusive,  and  his  schemes  abortive  ;  when  thct 
Almighty  Power  humbles  human  pride,  converts  our 
^visdom  into  folly,  our  profoundest  counsels  into  mani- 
fest and  striking  instances  of  madness  !  At  such  a 
moment,  the  caresses  of  a  child,  the  most  distant 
civility  from  infei'iors,  aflbrd  us  the  highest  comfort. 
The  scene,  however,  pi^esently  changes  ;  we  view 
misfortune  under  a  difl*ercnt  aspect,  our  softness  dies 
away,  our  sufferings  decrease,  the  soul  begins  to  rise 
from  its  dejection,  we  acquire  a  knowledge  of  its 
faculties,  become  indifferent  to  every  external  object, 
and  feeling  the  extent  of  its  powers,  discover  our  su- 
periority over  all  those  circumstances  which  before 
gave  inquietude  to  fear,  and  alarm  to  weakness. 

Sheltered  in  the  retreats  of  Solitude  from  the  ex- 
tremes of  fortune,  and  less  exposed  to  the  intoxication 
of  success,  or  the  depression  of  disappointment,  life 
glides  easily  along  like  the  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud. 
Adversity  need  not  here  intrude,  to  teach  us  how 
insignificant  wc  are  in  the  eyes  of  God,  how  helpless 
without  his  assistance,  how  much  our  unchecked 
pride  poisons  the  happiness  of  life,  torments  the  heart, 
:and  becomes  the  endless  and  encreasing  source  of  hu- 


OK    THE    T.riXD    AND    THE  HEART.  41 

inan  misery  ;  for  in  the  calm  regions  of  retirement, 
imdtsturbed  by  treacherous  fondness  or  groundless  hate, 
if  even  hope  should  disappear,  and  every  comfort 
vanish  from  our  view,  we  are  still  capable  of  submit- 
ting to  the  stroke  of  fate  with  patience  and  resignation. 

Let  every  one,  therefore,  who  wishes  to  think  with 
dignity,  or  live  with  ease,  seek  the  retreats  of  Soli- 
tude, and  enter  into  a  friendly  intercourse  with  his 
own  heart.  How  small  a  portion  of  true  philosophy, 
with  an  enlightened  understanding,  will  render  us 
humble  and  compliant  !  But,  in  tlie  mists  of  preju- 
dice, dazzled  by  the  intellectual  glimmer  of  false 
lights,  every  one  mistakes  the  true  path,  and  seeks  for 
happiness  in  the  shades  of  darkness,  and  the  labyrinths 
of  obscurity*  The  habits  of  retirement  and  tranquilit)'" 
can  alone  enable  us  to  make  a  just  estimate  of  men 
and  things,  and  it  is  by  renouncing  all  the  preposses- 
sions which  the  corruptions  of  society  have  implanted 
>^n  the  mind,  that  we  make  the  iifst  advances  towards 
the  lestoration  of  reason,  and  the  attainment  of  felicity. 

Solitude  will  aflford  us  this  advantage,  if  when  we. 
are  there  alone  before  God,  and  far  retired  from  the 
observation  of  men,  the  silent  language  of  conscience 
shews  to  us  the  great  imperfection  of  our  characters, 
and  the  many  dilTiculties  we  have  yet  to  surmount,  be- 
fore we  can  attain  the  excellence  of  which  our  nature 
is  capable.  In  society,  men  mutually  deceive  each 
other  :  they  make  a  parade  of  learning,  affect  senti- 
ments which  they  do  not  possess,  dazzle  the  observer 
by  borrowed  rays,  and  in  the  end  mislead  themselves 
by  the  illusions  which  they  raise.  But  in  Solitude, 
far  removed  from  the  guile  of  flattery  and  falsehood, 
accompanied  by  truth  and  followed  by  virtue,  the  mind 
enters  into  a  close  acquaintance  with  itself,  forms  its 
judgment  with  greater  accuracy,  and  feels  the  inesti- 
mable value  of  sincerity  and  singleness  of  heart.  Here 
tlie  possession  of  these  qualities  can  never  prove  inju- 
D    2 


:^P  THE  INFLUENCE    OF   SOLITUDB 

rioiis  ;  for  in  the  retreats  of  Solitude,  moral  excellence 
is  not  an  object  either  of  ridicule  or  contempt.  We 
here  compare  the  false  appearances  of  the  world  with 
the  reality  of  things,  and  perceive  the  advantages  they 
seem  to  promise,  and  the  specious  virtues  they  ap- 
peared to  possess,  vanish  like  an  airy  vapour.  The 
pride  of  human  wit,  the  false  conclusions  of  reason, 
the  mistakes  of  vanity,  and  the  weaknesses  of  the 
heart,  are  here  developed  to  the  eye  of  impartial- 
ity. All  that  is  imperfect  in  our  fairest  virtues,  m  our 
sublimest  conceptions,  in  our  most  generous  actions, 
all  the  ostentations  of  self-love,  are  here  exhibited  in 
their  natural  forms.  Is  it  possible  to  acquire  so  per- 
fect a  knowledge  of  ourselves  in  the  world,  amidst  the 
bustle  of  business,  and  among  the  increasing  dangers 
^of  social  life  ? 

To  subdue  the  dangerous  passions  and  vicious  incli- 
nations, which  agitate  and  mislead  the  heart,  it  is 
necessary  to  fix  the  attention  on  other  objects,  and  turn 
our  attachments  to  more  laudable  pursuits  ;  but  Soli- 
tude is  the  only  situation  in  which  new  sentiments  and 
new  ideas,  arising  from  inexhaustible  resources,  instil 
themselves  into  the  mind  :  here  the  soul  acts  with  per- 
fect freedom  in  every  direction,  and  exerts  all  the 
force  and  energy  of  which  it  is  susceptible.  And  as 
Solitude,  to  the  idle,  may  mitigate  the  intemperance  of 
desire,  so,  on  the  contrary,  to  the  active  it  affords  a 
complete  victory  over  all  the  most  irregular  inclina- 
tions of  the  heart. 

Snatched  from  the  illusions  of  society,  from  the 
snares  of  the  world,  and  placed  in  the  security  of  re- 
tirement, we  view  every  object  in  its  true  form,  as  well 
\mder  the  distractions  of  misfortune,  as  in  the  pangs 
of  sickness,  and  in  the  anguish  of  death.  The  vanity 
and  emptiness  of  all  those  advantap;es  whicli  we  expect 
from  external  objects,  appear  in  full  view^,  and  we  dis-^ 
wvcr  the  necessity  of  curbing  the  extravagance  of  oujr 


OtN  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  4^ 

thoughts,  and  the  licentiousness  of  our  desires.  The 
veil  of  false  appearance  is  removed  ;  and  lie  who  in  the 
world  was  raised  as  much  above  others,  as  by  his  faults 
and  vices  he  oug*ht  to  have  sunk  beneath  them,  here 
perceives  the  imperfections  which  iiattery  had  conceal- 
ed, and  which  a  crowd  of  miserable  slaves  had.  perhaps^ 
the  baseness  and  cowardice  entirely  to  justify. 

To  acquire  durable  pleasures  and  true  felicity,  it  is 
necessary  to  adopt  that  judicious  and  rational  philoso- 
phy which  considers  life  in  a  serious  pomt  of  \icWy. 
courts  enjoyments  which  neither  time  nor  accident 
can  destroy,  and  looks  with  an  eye  of  pity  on  the  stupid 
vulgar,  agitating  their  minds  and  tormenting  their 
hearts,  in  sj)lendid  miseries  and  childish  conversations. 
Those  however,  on  the  contrary,  who  have  no  know- 
ledge of  their  own  hearts,  who  have  no  habits  of 
rjeilection,  no  means  of  employment,  who  have  not 
persevered  in  virtue  nor  are  able  to  hsten  to  the  voice 
of  reason,  iiave  nothing  to  hope  from  Solitude  ;  their 
joys  are  all  annihilated  when  the  blood  has  lost  its 
warmth,  when  the  senses  are  blunted,  and  their  powers 
diminished  ;  on  experiencing  the  least  inconvenience, 
the  most  trifling  reverse  of  fortune,  they  fall  into  the 
deepest  distress,  the  most  horrid  ideas  filltlieir  minds, 
and  they  are  tormented  with  all  the  agitations  of  an 
alarmed  imagination. 

We  have  hitherto  only  pointed  out  one  portion  of 
the  general  advantages  of  SoIUude  :  there  are,  howe- 
ver, many  others  which  touch  men  more  nearly.  Ah  l 
who  has  not  experienced  its  kind  influence  in  the  ad- 
versities of  life  1  Who  has  not  in  the  moment  of  con- 
valescence, in  the  hour  of  melancholy,  in  the  age  when 
separation  or  death  has  deprived  the  heart  of  the  in- 
tercourses of  friendship,  sought  relief  under  its  salutary 
shades  ?  Happy  is  the  being  who  is  sensible  of  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  religious  retirement  from  the  world,  of  a 
sacred  tranquility,  where  all  the  benefits,  to  he  deripcl 


44  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

from  society,  impress  themselves  more  deeply  m  the 
heart,  where  every  hour  is  coasecrated  to  the  practice^ 
of  the  mild  and  peaceful  virtues  ;  and  where  every 
niijin,  when  he  is  on  tiie  b^d  of  death,  wishcis  he  had 
lived  !  But  these  advantPiges  become  mucii  more  con- 
spicuous, when  we  compare  the  modes  of  thought 
"Which  employ  the  mind  of  a  solitary  philosopher,  with 
those  of  a  worldly  sensualist  ;  the  tiresome  and  tu- 
multuous life  of  the  one,  with  the  soft  tranquility  of 
the  other  ;  when  we  oppose  the  fear  and  horrour 
which  disturb  tiie  deatli  bed  of  the  worldly-minded 
man,  with  the  peaceable  and  easy  exit  of  those  pious 
souls,  who  submit  with  resignation  to  the  will  of  jtiea- 
ven.  It  is  at  tins  awful  moment,  that  we  feel  how 
important  it  is  to  turn  the  eye  inwardly  upon  ourselves, 
and  to  hold  a  religious  communion  with  our  Creator, 
if  we  would  bear  the  sufferings  of  life  with  dignity,  and 
the  pains  of  death  with  ease. 

.  Solitude  affords  us  the  most  incontestible  advantaged 
under  the  greatest  adversities  of  liie.  The  convales- 
cent, the  unfoWunate,  the  misanthropist,  here  fmd 
equal  relief  ;  their  tortured  souls  here  find  a  balm  for 
the  deep  and  painful  wounds  they  have  received,  and 
soon  regain  their  j^ristinc  health  and  vigour. 

Sickness  and  afdiction  would  fly  with  horrour  from 
the  retreats  of  Solitude,  if  their  friendly  shades  did 
not  afford  them  that  consolation,  which  they  are  una- 
ble to  obtah"i  in  the  temples  of  pleasure.  The  subtile 
vapours  which  sensuality  and  intoxication  shed  upon 
the  objects  that  surround  a  state  of  health  and  happi- 
ness, entirely  disappear  ;  and  all  those  charms,  which 
subsist  rather  in  imagination  than  in  reality,  lose  their 
power.  To  the  happy,  every  object  wears  the  delight- 
ful colours  of  the  rose  ;  but  to  the  miserable,  all  is 
black  and  dreadful.  The  two  conditions  are  equally  in 
the  extreme  ;  but  neither  of  them  discover  the  errors 
iuto  which  they  are  betrayed,  until  the  moment  ^h^ii 


ON  THE  MIND  AND  THE  HEAHT.       4S 

the  curtain  drops,  when  the  scene  chanties,  the  illu- 
sion is  dissipated.  Both  of  them  enjoy  the  dream, 
while  the  understanding  continues  silent  and  absorbed. 
The  one  feels  that  God  employs  his  attention  to  the 
preservation  of  his  creatures,  even  when  he  sees  them 
the  most  abandoned  and  profligate.  The  others  de- 
vote themselves  to  those  vanities  and  pleasures  with 
which  the  fashions  of  the  world  intoxicate  the  mind, 
even  although,  at  the  very  moment,  they  reflect  se- 
riously upon  themselves,  upon  their  present  situation, 
their  future  destiny,  and  the  means  by  which  alon« 
they  can  be  conducted  to  perfect  felicity. 

How  unhappy  should  we  be  if  the  Divine  Providence 
were  to  grant  us  every  thing  we  desire  !  Even  under 
the  very  afflictions,  by  which  man  conceives  all  the 
happiness  of  his  life  annihilated,  God  perhaps  purpos- 
es something  extraordinary  in  his  favour.  New  cir- 
cumstances excite  new  exertions.  In  Solitude  and 
tranquility,  if  we  earnestly  endeavour  to  conquer  mis-* 
fortune,  the  activity  of  life,  which,  until  the  moment 
of  adversity,  had  been  perhaps  suspended,  suddenly 
changes  ;  and  the  mind  regains  its  energy  and  vigour, 
even  while  it  laments  the  state  of  inaction,  to  which  it 
conceives  itself  to  be  irretrievably  reduced. 

But  there  are  still  greater  advantages  :  if  sorrow 
force  us  into  Solitude,  patience  and  perseverance  soon 
restore  the  soul  to  its  natural  tranquility  and  joy.  We 
ought  never  to  inspect  the  volume  of  futurity  ;  its 
pages  will  only  deceive  us  ;  on  the  contrary,  we  ought 
for  ever  to  repeat  this  experimental  truth,  this  consol- 
atory maxim  .-—-That  the  objects  which  men  behold 
at  a  distance  with  fear  and  trembling,  lose,  on  a  nearer 
approach,  not  only  their  disagreeable  and  menacing 
aspect,  but  frequently,  in  the  event,  produce  the  most 
agreeable  and  unexpected  pleasures.  He  who  tries 
every  expedient,  who  boldly  opi>oses  himself  to  every^ 
difficulty,  who  stands  steady  aud  inflexible  to  every 


A6  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUBK 

.obstacle,  v/ho  neglects  no  exertion  within  his  poweir, 
and  relies  with  conQdence  on  the  assistance  of  God, 
extracts  from  affliction  both  its  poison  and  its  stin^, 
,and  deprives  misfortune  of  its  victory. 
.  Sorrow,  misfortune,  sickness,  soon  render  us  easy 
.and  familitir  with  Solitude,  How  readily  we  renounce 
the  v/orld,  ho^7  in^liiferent  we  become  to  all  its  pleas- 
^urcs,  when  the  insidious  eloquence  of  the  passions  is 
.silenced,  when  we  are  distracted  by  pain,  oppressed 
^byjl-rief,  and  deserted  by  all  our  powers  1  Under  such 
circumstances,  w<i  immediately  perceive  the  weakness 
and  instability  of  those  succours  which  the  world  af- 
ibyds';  whore  pain  is  mixed  with  every  joy,  and  vanity 
.reigns  throughout.  How  many  useful  truths,  alas  ! 
does  sickness  teach  even  vto  kings  and  ministers,  while 
they  suiTer  themselves  to  be  deluded  and  imposed  up- 
.pn. by.  all  mankind  1 

•  The  opportunity  wibich  a  valetudinarian  enjoys,  of 
j^mploying  his  facvdties  with  facility  and  success,  in  a 
■man ner  conformable  to  the  e^^tent  of  his  designs,  is 
rimdoubtedly  short,  and  passes  rapidly  away.  Suck 
^happiness  is  the  lot  only  of  those  who  enjoy  robust 
jiealtii  :  they  alone  can  exclaim,  "  Time  is  my  own  ;'* 
but  he  who  labours  under  continual  sickness  and  suf- 
fering, and  whose  avocation  depends  on  the  public  lie- 
-cessity  or  caprice^  can  never  say  that  he  has  one 
mome?it  to  himself.  He  tnvist  watch  the  fleeting  hour^ 
ias  they  pass,  and  seiz^  an  interval  of  liesure  when  and 
where  he  can.  Necessity  as  well  as  reason  convinces 
bim,  that  he  must,  in  sjHte  of  his  daily  sufferings,  his 
wearied  body,  or  his  liarrassed  mir»d,  firmly  resist  his. 
accumulating  troubles,  and,  if  he  would  save  himself 
from  becoming  the  victim  of  dejection,  manfully  com- 
bat the  difficulties  by  which  lie  is  attacked.  The  more 
we  enervate  ourselves,  the  ^more  we  become  the  prejr 
of  ill-health  ;  but  a  determined  courage  and  obstinate 
resistance,  frequently  renovate?  our  \powera  ;  and  ha 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART,  47 

who,  in  the  calm  of  Solitude,  vigourousiy  wrestles  with 
misiorlune,  is  certain,  in  the  event,  of  gaining  consi- 
derable advantage. 

But  under  the  pains  of  sickness,  we  are  apt  too  easilf 
to  listen  to  the  voice  of  indulgence';  we  neglect  to^ 
exercise  the  powers  we  possess  ;  and  instead  of  directr 
ing  the  attention  to  those  objects  which  may  divert 
distraction  and  strengthen  fortitude,  we  foster  fondly 
ifi  our  bosoms  all  the  disagreeable  circumstances  of 
our  situation.  The  soul  sinks  from  inquietude  to  in- 
quietude, loses  all  its  powers,  abandons  its  remaining 
reason,  and  feels,  from  its  increasing  agonies  and  suf- 
ferings, no  confidence  in  its  own  exertions.  The 
valetudinarian  should  force  his  mind  to  forget  its  trour 
bles  ;  should  endeavour  to  emerge  from  the  heavy  at- 
mosphere by  whicli  he  is  enveloped  and  depressed. 
'By  these  exertions,  he  will  certainly  find  unexpected 
reHef,  and  be  able  to  accomplish  that  which  before  he 
conceived  to  be  impossible.  For  this  purpose,  howe- 
ver, he  must  first  dismiss  the  physicians,  who  daily 
visit  him,  to  ascertain  the  state  of  his  health  ;  feeling 
his  pulse  with  a  ludicrous  gravity,  while  they  serious- 
ly shake  their  heads,  and  perform,  according  to  their 
-custom,  many  other  affected  and  ridiculous  tricks  ; 
but  who,  from  a  great  inclination  to  discover  what  does 
not  exist,  unhappily  never  discern  the  symptoms  that 
are  most  plainly  to  be  seen.  These  pretenders  to  sci- 
ence serve  only  to  alarm  the  mind  of  the  patient,  to 
rivet  his.  attention  more  closely  to  those  very  objects 
which  it  is  his  interest  to  forget,  and  to  redouble  his . 
sufferings,  by  the  beneficial  danger  into  which  they 
raise  the  most  trifling  circumstance  of  his  disorder. 
He  must  also  avoid  the  company  of  false  friends,  and 
all  those  who  only  administer  flattery  to  his  frailties. 
He  must  learn  to  assure  them,  that  he  disbelieves  all 
that  they  have  told  him  ;  for  if  the  sensations  they  ex^ 
pite,  are  thought  to  have  any  foundation  p  truth;  his 


4$  THE  INFI^UENCE   OF    SOLITUDE 

own  imagination  immediately  superinduces  a  variety 
of  gloomy  phantoms  and  terrifying  chimeras. 

Thus,  under  situations  the  most  difficult  to  support, 
there  still  remain  resources  and  consolations  in  the 
Ibiosom  of  Solitude.  Are  the  nerves  deranged  ?  Is  the 
head  pained  by  vertigoes  ?  Has  the  mind  no  longer 
any  power  to  think,  the  eye  to  read,  the  hand  to  write  ? 
Has  it  become  physically  impossible  to  exercise  an/ 
of  the  functions  of  the  soul  ?  In  such  a  situation,  we 
must  leari)  '^  to  vegetate,"  said  one  of  the  most 
enlightened  philosophers  of  Germany,  when  he  behelcj 
irie  at  Hanover,  in  a  condition  which  rendered  me  in.» 
capable  of  adopting  any  other  resource.  O  Garve  ! 
with  what  rapture  I  threw  myself  into  your  arms  ! 
With  what  transports  I  heard  you  speak,  when  you 
shewed  me  the  necessity  of  learning  to  support  myself 
under  my  accumulated  calamities,  by  convincing  me 
that  you  had  experienced  equal  sufferings,  and  had 
been  able  to  practise  the  lessons  which  you  taught. 

The  sublime  Menbelsohm,  during  a  certain  period 
of  his  life,  was  frequently  obliged  to  retire,  whe»  dis- 
coursing on  philosophical  subjects,  to  avoid  the  danger 
of  fainting.  In  these  moments,  it  was  his  custom  to 
neglect  all  study,  to  banish  labour  of  thought  entirely 
from  his  mind.  His  physician  one  day  asked  him, 
"  How  then  do  you  employ  your  time,  if  you  do  not 
*'  think  ?"— -"  I  retire  to  the  windows  of  my  chamber, 
"  and  count  the  tiles  upon  the  roof  of  my  neighbour's 
"house." 

Without  thy  tranquil  wisdom,  O  !  my  beloved 
Mendelsohm  i  Without  thy  resignation  to  the  will 
©f  Heaven,  we  can  never  reach  that  elevated  grandeur 
of  character,  can  never  attain  to  that  dignified  endur- 
ance of  our  sufferings,  can  never  possess  that  stoic 
fortitude,  which  places  human  happiness  beyond  the 
reach  of  misery,  and  out  of  the  power  of  fate.  Thy 
g^eat  example  pours  consolation  into  the  heart  j  and 


ON  THB    MIND   AND   THE    HEART,  4^ 

llumanity  should  behold  with  grateful  joy,  the  supe- 
riority which  resignation  affords  to  us,  even  under  the 
severest  of  physical  misfortunes. 

A  slight  effort  to  obtain  the  faintest  ray  of  comfort, 
and  a  calm  resignation  under  inevitable  misfortunes, 
will  mutually  contribute  to  procure  relief.  The  man 
whose  mind  adheres  to  virtue,  will  never  permit  him- 
self to  be  so  fur  overcome  with  the  sense  of  misfor- 
tune, as  not  to  endeavour  to  vanquish  his  feelings,  even 
when,  fallen  into  the  unhappy  state  of  despair,  he  no 
longer  sees  any  prospect  of  comfort  or  consolation. 
The  most  dejected  bosom  may  endure  sensations 
deeply  afflicting,  provided  the  mind  be  not  lazy  and 
inactive,  will  exercise  its  attention  on  some  other  ob- 
ject than  itself,  and  make  the  smallest  effort  to  with- 
draw the  soul  from  brooding  over  its  torments  and  its 
sorrows,  by  inspiring  the  mind  with  ideas  of  virtuous 
sentiments,  noble  actions,  and  generous  inclinations. 
For  this  reason,  it  is  necessary  to  cultivate  in  our 
minds  the  love  of  activity,  and,  after  a  dutiful  and  en- 
tire submission  to  the  dispensations  of  Heaven,  force 
ourselves  into  employment,  until,  from  the  warmth  of 
our  exertions,  we  acquire  a  habit  of  alertness,  I  con- 
sider a  disposition  to  be  active,  amidst  that  disgust  and 
apathy  which  destroy  the  nerves  of  life,  as  the  most 
sure  and  efficacious  antidote  against  the  poison  of  a 
dejected  spirit,  a  soured  temper,  a  melancholy  mind. 

The  influence  of  the  mind  upon  the  body  is  one  of* 
the  most  consolatory  truths  to  tliose  who  are  the  sub- 
jects of  habitual  sufferings.  Supported  by  this  idea, 
they  nevei*"  permit  their  reason  to  be  entirely  over- 
come :  religion,  under  this  idea  never  loses  it* 
powerful  empire  in  the  breast  :  and  they  are  nevei* 
instructed  in  the  lamentable  truth,  that  men  of  the 
finest  sensibilities,  and  most  cultivated  understandings, 
frequently  di3t:'^ver  less  fortitude  under  afflictions, 
than  th^  most  Yulgar  of  mankinds     It  is,  perhaps,  iii- 


50  THE  INFLUENCE   OF    SOLITUDE 

Xi'edible,  that  Campanella  should  have  been  capable 
ofderangmg  his  mmd  by  g'loomy  reflections,  to  such 
a  degree,  that  he  might  hav.e  endured  the  tortures  gf 
the  rack  w'lih  less  pain  ;  but  I  can,  from  my  own  ex- 
perience, assert,  that  even  in  the  extremity  of  distress, 
every  object  which  diverts  the  attention,  softens  the 
evils  which  we  endure,  and  frequently  drives  theni, 
imperceived,  away. 

Many  celebrated  philosophers  have,  by  this  means, 
at  length  been  able,  not  only  to  preserve  a  tranquil 
mind  in  the  midst  of  the  most  poignant  sufferings,  but 
Juive  even  increased  the  strength  of  their  intellectual 
faculties,  in  spite  of  their  corporeal  pains.  Rousseau 
composed  the  greatest  part  of  his  immortal  works, 
under  the  continual  pressure  of  sickness  and  grief. 
Gejllert,  who,  by  his  mild,  agreeable,  and  instruct- 
ive writings,  has  become  the  preceptor  of  Germany, 
certainly  found  in  this  interesting  occupation,  the 
surest  remedy  against  melancholy.  At  an  age  already 
far  advanced  in  life,  Mendelsohm,  who,  although 
not  by  nature  subject  to  dejection,  w^as  for  along  time 
oppressed  by  an  almost  inconceivable  derangement  of 
the  nervous  system,  by  submitting  with  patience  an^ 
docility  to  his  sufferings,  still  maintains  all  the  noble 
and  sublim.e  advantages  of  his  youth.  Garve,  who 
had  lived  whole  years  without  being  able  to  read,  to 
write,  or  to  think,  afterwards  composed  his  treatise  op 
Cicero  ;  and  in  that  work,  this  profound  w^'iter,  so 
circumspect  in  all  his  expressions,  that  he  v/ould  have 
been  sensibly  affected  if  any  word  too  emphatic  had 
dropped  from  his  pen,  with  a  species  of  enthusiasm 
returns  thanks  to  the  Almighty  God  for  the  imbecili- 
ty of  his  constittition,  because  it  had  convinced  him  of 
the  extensive  hiiiuence  w^hich  the  powers  of  the  mind 
possess  over  those  of  the  body. 

A  firm  resolution,  a  steady  adherence  towards  some 
noble  and  interesting  end,  will  enable  us  to  enjdii^'e 


OIT  THE    MINB    A?^9    THE    HEART-.  5\ 

the  mo^^t  poi:^nant  afrnclion.  An  heroic  courage  is 
natural  in  all  the  dangerous  enterprizea  ot'  ambition, 
fend  in  the  little  crosses  of  life  is  much  more  common 
than  patience  ;  but  a  persevering;  coura^ye,  undei*  evils 
of  long;  dur-ation,  is  a  quahty  rarely  set-n  ;  espixiaily 
when  the  soul,  enervated  4jy  melancholy,  abandons  it- 
self to  despair,  it^  most  ordinary  reiuge,  and  looks 
up  to  Heaven  alone  for  its  protection. 

It  is  this  that  renders  melancholy  tlie  most  severe 
of  all  the  calamities  of  human  life  ;  and  of  all  the  re- 
me*dies  against  it,  there  is  none  more  efficacious  than 
a  calm  and  silent  employment  of  the  mind  :  for  in  So- 
litU'ie,  the  weight  of  melancholy  is  lessened  by  the 
feeblest  effort,  by  the  slightest  resistance.  I'he  mo- 
ment we  make  it  a  rule  never  to  be  idle,  and  to  beay 
our  sufferings  with  patience,  the  keenest  anguish  of 
the  soul  flics  from  our  resignation,  yields  to  our  sub- 
mission. While  we  encourage  a  fondness  for  activity, 
and  endeavour  to  repel  the  incumbent  misery  by  mo- 
derate but  continued  efforts,  the  spirits  gain  new 
powers  :  a  small  victory  leads  to  a  greater  conquest  : 
and  the  joy  which  success  inspires,  immediately  de- 
stroys the  notion  we  had  entertained  of  endless  sorrow. 
If  the  exertions  of  reason  and  virtue,  prove  ineffectual 
against  sickness  and  ill-humoiu',  we  should  employ 
the  mind  upon  some  enga^-ing  object  v/hich  requires 
but  little  attention  ;  for  the  slightest  is  frequently  ca- 
pable of  subduing  the  severest  sorrow.  The  shades 
of  melancholy  disappear,  the  moment  we  iix  attention 
on  any  object  that  interests  the  mhid.  Oftentimes, 
alas  !  that  extravagant  despair,  that  supineness  and 
apathy  which  rejects  all  advice,  and  renders  us  inca- 
pable of  consolation,  is  only  a  concealment  of  our 
vexations,  and  of  consequence  becomes  a  real  malady 
of  the  mind,  which  it  is  impossible  to  conquer  but  by 
a  firm  and  constant  perseverance. 


52  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

To  men  who  possess  a  sensibility  too  refined,  an 
imagination  too  ardent,  to  mix  ^vlth  comfort  in  the 
f,ociety  of  the  world,  and  who  are  continually  com* 
plainint^  of  men  and  things,  Solitude  is  not  only 
desirable,  but  absolutely  necessary.  He  who  suffers 
jiimself  to  be  afPiicted  by  that  which  scarcely  excites 
an  emotion  in  the  breasts  of  other  men  ;  who  complains 
of  those  misfortunes  as  severe  which  otheis  scarcely 
feel  ;  whose  mind  falls  into  despair  unless  his  happi- 
jiess  be  instantly  iHistored,  and  his  wants  immediately 
satisfied  ;  who  suffers  unceasing  torments  from  the 
iliusi6ns  of  his  flmcy  ;  wiio  feels  himself  unhappy  on- 
ly because  prosperity  does  not  anticipate  his  wishes  ; 
who  murmurs  against  the  blessings  he  receives,  be- 
cause he  is  ignorant  of  his  real  wants  ;  who  flies  from 
one  amusement  to  another  ;  who  is  alarmed  at  every- 
thing, and  enjoys  nothing  :  he,  alas  !  is  not  formed  for 
society  ;  and  if  Solitude  have  not  power  to  heal  his 
wounded  spirit,  the  earth  certainly  contains  no  reme- 
dy to  cure  him. 

Men  who  in  other  respects  are  very  rational,  possess- 
ed of  excellent  hearts  and  pious  dispositions,  frequent- 
ly fall  into  disquietude  and  despair,  but  it  is  almost 
entirely  their  own  fault.  If  their  despair  arise,  as  is 
generally  the  case,  from  unfounded  fears  ;  if  they 
love  to  torment  themselves  and  others  upon  every 
filight  inconvenience,  upon  the  smallest  derangem.ent 
of  their  health  ;  if  they  constantly  resort  to  medicine 
for  that  relief  which  reason  alone  can  afford  ;  if  they 
tvill  not  endeavour  to  repress  the  wanderings  of  their 
fanries  ;  if,  after  having  supported  the  acutest  pains 
with  p.titnce,  and  blunted  tl\e  greatest  misfortunes  by 
fortitude,  they  neither  can  nor  will  learn  to  bear  the 
]nincture  of  the  smallest  pin,  to  endure  the  lightest 
accidents  of  mortal  life  ;  they  ought  not  to  complain 
of  the  want  of  courage  to  any  biit  themselves  ;  such 
characters,  who.  by  a  single  effort  of  the  understand* 


ON  THE    MINO    AND    THK    HEART.  53 

ing\  might  look  with  composure  and  tranquility  on  the 
multiplied  and  fatal  fires,  issuing  from  the  dreadful 
cannon's  mouth,  fail  under  the  apprehension  of  being 
fired  at  by  pop-guns. 

Firmness,  resolution,  and  all  those  qualities  of  the 
soul,  which  form  a  stoic  hardiness  of  character,  are 
much  sooner  acquired  by  a  quiet  communion  with 
the  heart,  than  in  the  busy  intercourses  of  mankind, 
where  innumerable  diflicnlties  continually  oppose  us  ; 
where  duty,  servility,  flattery,  and  fear,  obstruct  exer- 
tion ;  where  every  thing  unites  to  destroy  our  pov/ers  ; 
and  where,  for  this  reason^  men  of  the  weakest  minds 
and  most  contracted  notions,  are  always  more  active 
and  popular,  gain  more  attention,  and  ai  ;  better  re- 
ceived, thin  men  of  enlarged  and  noble  minds. 

The  mind  fortifies  itself  with  impregnable  strength 
tinder  the  shades  of  Solitude,  against  sufferings  and 
atlliction.  In  retirement,  the  IVivolous  attachments 
'which  steal  away  the  soul,  and  drive  it  wandering,  as 
chance  may  direct,  into  a  dreary  void,  die  away.  The 
distracting  multipUcity  of  enjoyments  are  here  re- 
nounced ;  we  have  experienced  how  little  we  want  ; 
perhaps  have  made  so  considerable  a  progress  in  the 
knowledge  of  ourselves,  that  we  feel  no  discomposure 
when  the  Almighty  chastises  us  with  afHictions,  hum- 
bles our  proud  spirits  and  vain  coilceits,  thwarts  the 
violence  of  our  passions,  and  restores  us  to  a  lively 
sense  of  our  inanity  and  weakness.  How  many  im- 
poi'tant  truths  do  we  here  learn,  of  which  the  worldly- 
minded  man  has  no  idea  ;  truths  which  the  torrent  of 
vanity  overwhelms  in  his  dissipated  soul  1  How  fami- 
liarised we  become  with  the.evils  attached  to  a  state  of 
mortality,  in  proportion  as  we  cast  the  calm  eye  of 
reflection  on  ourselves,  and  on  the  objects  which  sur- 
round us  !  In  a  state  of  Solitude  and  tranquility,  how 
different  every  thing  appears  !  The  heart  expands  to 
ihe  mo^t  virtuous  sentiments  ;  the  blush  of  couscience 
E2 


6^  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

reddens  on  the  cheek  ;  we  reach  the  sublimest  con- 
ceptions of  the  mind,  adopt  the  boldest  resolutions, 
and  observe  a  conduct  truly  irreproachable. 

The  unfortimate  being  who  deplores  the  death  of 
sonie  beloved  friend,  constantly  feels  a  strong  desire 
to  withdraw  from  the  intercourse  of  society  ;  while  all 
unite  to  destroy  the  laudable  inclination.  They  avoid 
ail  conversation  with  the  unhappy  sufferer  on  the  sub- 
ject of  its  loss,  and  tiUnk  it  more  consolatory  to  sur- 
round him  with  a  crowd  of  acquaintance,  cold  and 
indifferent  to  the  event,  who  think  their  duties  suffi- 
ciently disch?irged  by  paying'  the  tributary  visit,  and 
chattering  from  morning  till  evening  on  the  current 
topics  of  the  town  ;  as  if  each  of  their  pleasantries 
conveyed  a  balm  of  comfort  into  the  wounded  heart. 

"  Leave  me  to  mysdf^^  I  exclaimed  a  thousand 
limes,  within  two  years  after  my  arrival  in  Germany. 
I  lost  the  lovely  idol  of  my  heart,  the  amiable  compan- 
ion of  my  life.  Her  departed  spirit  still  hovers  round 
me  :  the  tender  recollection  of  all  that  she  was  to  me, 
the  afflicting  remembrance  of  all  that  she  suffered  on 
my  a.ccount,  are  always  present  to  my  mind  What 
purity  and  innocence  !  what  mildness  and  affability  1 
Her  death  was  as  calm  and  resigned  as  her  life  was 
pure  and  virtuous.  During  five  long  months  the  lin- 
gering pangs  of  dissolution  hung  continually  around 
her.  One  day,  as  she  reclined  upon  her  pillow,  while 
1  read  to  her  "  The  Death  of  Christ,"  by  Rammler, 
she  cast  her  eyes  over  the  page,  and  silently  pointed 
out  to  m.e  the  following  passage  :  "  My  breath  grows 
"  weak,  my  days  are  shortened,  my  heart  is  full  of  af- 
"  fliction,  and  my  soul  prepares  to  take  its  flight.'*— 
Alas  1  when  I  recal  all  those  circumstances  to  my 
mind,  and  recollect  how^  impossible  it  w-as  for  me  to 
abandon  the  world,  at  that  moment  of  anguish  and  dis- 
tress ;  when  I  carried  the  seeds  of  death  within  my 
iBosom  \  when  I  had  neither  f  ojaTiTVi>£  to  btar  my 


©N  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  55 

afflictions,  nor  coup  age  to  resist  them  ;  uhile  I  waai 
yet  pursued  by  ir.alice,  and  outraged  by  calumny  ;•— 
in  such  a  situation,  1  can  easily  conceive  that  my  ex- 
clamation might  be — ''  leave  me  ro  mtself,'^ 

To  be  a]one,  far  retired  from  the  tumults  and  em- 
barrassments of  society,  is  the  first  and  iondtst  desire 
of  the  heart,  -when,  tinder  such  misfortunes^we  are  un- 
happily situated  among  men  who,  incapable  of  equal 
feeling,  have  no  idea  of  the  torments  v/e  endure. 

How  !  to  live  in  Solitude,  to  rehnquish  the  society 
of  men,  to  be  buried,  during  hfe,  in  some  wild,  desert- 
ed country  I  Oh,  yes  1  such  a  retreat  affords  a  ten- 
der and  certain  consolation,  under  all  the  afilictions 
which  fasten  on  the  heart.  Such  is  the  eternal  sepa- 
ration of  sensible  and  beloved  friends — a  separation 
more  grievous  and  terrifying  than  the  fatal  period  it- 
self which  terminates  existence  : — the  heart  is  torn 
with  anguish,  the  very  ground  we  tread  on  seems  to 
sink  beneath  our  feet,  when  this  horrible  and  hidden 
event  divides  us  from  those  who  had  for  so  long  a  peri- 
od been  all  in  all  to  us  in  life,  wiiose  memory  neither 
time  nor  accident  can  wipe  away,  and  whose  absence 
renders  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  odious  to  our 
sight.  Solitude,  in  such  an  event,  is  our  only  resource  : 
but  to  soften  the  grief  which  this  eternal  separation 
inflicts,  to  remeve  the  sorrows  which  prey  upon  the 
poor  heart,  to  wipe  av/ay  the  tears  from  the  cheeks, 
we  must,  even  in  Solitude,  continue  to  employ  the 
mind,  to  excite  its  attention  to  the  accomplishment  of 
some  interesting  end,  and  lead  the  imagination  from 
one  object  to  another. 

How  many  torments,  alas  !  are  there,  that  lie  con- 
cealed from  the  observation  of  the  v/orid,  which  we 
miust  learn  to  bear  v/ithin  our  own  bosoms,  and  which 
can  only  be  softened  by  Solitude  and  retirement  ! 

Represent  to  yourself  an  unfortunate  foreigner,  pla- 
ced in  a  country  where  every  one  was  suspicious  of 


5S  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

his  character,  borne  down  by  misfortunes  froiTX  every 
side,  attacked  every  momeut  by  despair  ;  who, 
during  a  long  course  of  years,  could  neither  stoop 
nor  sit  to  write,  without  feeihig  the  most  excruci- 
ating pains  ;  m  a  country  where,  fioni  a  fanatic 
prejudice,  every  one  strewtd  thorns  and  briars  in 
his  path  ;  where,  in  tlie  midst  of  all  his  afflictions,  he 
w^as  deprived  of  the  object  which  was  dearest  to  him 
in  the  world.  Yet  it  was  in  such  a  country,  and  under 
these  circumstances,  that  he  at  length  found  a  person 
who  extended  the  hand  of  afTection  towards  hmi*  : 
whose  voice,  like  a  voice  fiom  Heaven,  said  to  him, 
"  Come,  I  will  dry  up  your  tears,  I  will  inspire  cour- 
'^  age  into  your  wounded  heart.  I  will  be  the  kind 
'*  comforter  of  all  your  suiKVrings,  aid  you  to  si;]>port 
"  them,  banish  tlie  remembrance  of  sorrow  from  your 
"  mind,  recal  your  sensibility  to  tl^e  touching  beauties 
*'  of  nature,  and  force  you  to  acknowledge  that  the 
*'  Religion  'ive  profess,  is  also  inspired  by  a  beneficent 
<^  Deity,  whose  goodness  strews  flowers  over  the  paths 
^'  of  life.  You  shall,  afterv/ards,  afford  assistance  to 
"  me,  become  part  of  my  family  ;  and  we  v.  ill  read, 
<^  think,  feeh  and  lift  up  our  hands  together  in  orations 
<<  to  God.  I  will  endeavour  to  charm  away  the  silence 
<^  of  disgust,  by  entertaining  conversation  ;  and,  when 
<'  tranquility  returns,  collect  for  you  all  the  flowers 
<<  which  adorn  the  paths  of  life  ;  discourse  with  you 
«<  on  the  charms  of  virtue  ;  think  of  you  v/ith  love  ; 
<*  treat  you  with  esteem  ;  rely  upon  you  with  confi- 
4<  dence  ;  prove  to  you,  that  the  people  among  whom 
i*  you  are  situated  are  less  w  icked  than  you  conceive 
<^  them  to  be — and  perhaps  that  they  are  not  so  at  all. 
<<  I  will  remove  from  your  mind  all  anxiety  about  do- 
<'  mestic  concerns  ;  do  every  thing  to  relieve  and 
<'  please  you  :  you  shall  taste  all  the  happiness  of  an 
*  The  author  here  alludes  to  Madame  Dorine,  nvife  of 
the  Coumcller  of  State^  and  daughter  to  the  £ckdrat€ii 
fic€'Chanccilo7'Stxub^, 


ON  THB    MIND    AND    T«E    HKART.  67 

<*  eusy,  tranquil  life.  I  will  diligently  enderivour  to 
^'  point  out  your  faults  ;  and  you,  in  gratitude,  shall 
*'  also  correct  mine.  You  shall  form  my  mind,  com- 
^'  munlcate  to  me  your  knowledge,  and  preserve  to 
<^  me,  by  the  assistarice  of  God  and  your  own  talents, 
"  the  felicities  of  my  life,  together  with  those  of  my 
^<  husband  and  my  children  ;  we  will  love  our  neigh- 
<^  hours  with  the  same  heart  ,and  unite  our  endeavours 
"  to  afford  consolation  to  the  afflicted,  and  succour  to 
<'  the  distressed." 

But  if,  after  having  experienced  all  this  pleasure  du* 
ring  a  great  nunVoer  of  years  ;  if,  after  having  enjoy- 
ed these  consolations,  under  circumstances  the  most 
critical  and  cruel  ;  if,  after  flattering  myself  that  her 
friendly  hand  would  close  my  dying  eye-lids — that  I 
should  expire  in  the  arms  of  this  heroic  female  ;  if, 
for  only  obeying  the  divine  impulse  of  commiseration, 
my  protectress  should  be  torn  for  ever  from  the  bosom 
of  her  family — obliged  to  leave  her  country,  and  seek 
a  voluntary  exile  in  a  foreign  land  :  if  I  should  behold 
myself  forever  deprived  of  this  dear  friend,  this  pro- 
tecting angel — what  comfort  would  remain  for  me  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  1  Thus  abandoned  and  forlorn^ 
tow^hat  asylum  could  I  fly  ?  To  Solitude,  alone  ! 
There  I  might  combat  my  rising  griefs,  and  learn  to 
support  my  destiny  with  courage. 

To  a  heart  torn,  by  too  rigorous  a  destiny,  from  the 
bosom  that  w^as  opened  for  its  reception,  from  a  bosom 
in  which  it  fondly  dwelt,  from  an  object  that  it  dearly 
loved — detatched  from  every  object,  at  a  loss  where 
to  fix  its  affection  or  communicate  its  feelings,  Soli- 
tude alone  can  administer  comfort.  To  him  who,  in 
the  cruel  hour  of  separation,  exclaims,  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  soul,  "  In  every  exertion  to  do  good,  my  onlr 
"  reward  is  to  give  you  pleasure  ;  all  the  happiness  of 
^*  my  life  c6ncentres  in  the  joys  that  you  receive  T* 
Solitude  is  the  last  and  only  consolation. 


58  TKE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUI>K 

There  are,  therefore,  situations  from  which  nothinf^ 
but  Solitude  and  retirement  can  relieve  us.  For  this 
reason  it  is  frequently  necessary  that  those  whom  me- 
lancholy afTects,  should  be  left  alone  ;  for,  as  we  shall 
now  proceed  to  shew,  they  may  iind  in  Solitude  an  in- 
finite variety  of  consolations,  and  many  resources  of 
comfort,  both  for  the  mind  and  the  heart. 

The  healthy  and  the  sick,  the  happy  and  the  miser- 
able, the 'rich  and  the  poor,  all,  without  exception, 
may  find  infiolte  advantas^es  in  a  religious  retirement 
from  the  world.  It  is  not,  alas  I  in  the  temples  of 
pleasure,  in  those  meetine^s  where  every  one  empties, 
to  its  last  drop,  the  cup  of  folly  ;  in  the  coteries  oc- 
cupied by  vulc^ar  gaiety  ;  in  brilliant  assemblies,  or  at 
luxurious  bo?.rds — that  the  mind  grows  familiar  with 
those  tender  and  sublime  sentiments  which  subdue  the 
desires  of  sensuality,  ennoble  all  the  enjoyments  of 
life,  raise  the  passing  moment  into  importarjceby  con- 
necting it  with  the  events  of  futurity,  and  baniah  from 
a  transitory  life  the  extravagant  fondness  for  the  dis- 
sipations of  the  world. 

In  Solitude  we  behold,  more  near  and  intimately, 
that  Providence  v/hich  overlooks  all.  Silence  continu- 
ally recals  to  our  mind  the  consolatory  idea,  the  mild 
and  satisfactory  sentiment,  that  the  eye  of  the  Almigh- 
ty is  forever  viewing  the  actions  of  his  creatures  ;  that 
he  superintends  all  our  movements  ;  that  we  are  gov- 
crneil  by  his  power  and  preserved  by  his  goodness.—. 
In  Solitude,  the  Deity  is  every  where  before  us.  E- 
mancipated  from  the  dangerous  fermentations  of  sensci 
guided  by  nobler  inclinations,  possessed  of  pure,  unal- 
terable joys  ;  we  contemplate  with  seriousness. and  vig- 
our, with  freedom  and  with  confidence,  the  attainment 
of  supreme  felicity,  and  enjoy,  in  thought,  the  happi- 
ness we  expect  to  reach.  In  this  holy  meditation,  ev- 
ery ignoble  sentiment,  every  painful  anxietv,  every 
worldly  thought  and  vulg^ar  care,  banish  from  the  niind|* 


ON  THE    IIIXD    AXB    THE    HEART.  59 

Solitude  has  already  brought  us  nearer  to  Got!, 
rjien,  beside  all  the  tender  and  hun^ane  feelings  of  the 
'cart,  we  feel  those  salutary  sensations  which  a  dis- 
trust and  jealousy  of  our  own  abilities  crvatc— -sensa- 
tions which,  in  public  hfe,  make  light  and  transient 
impressions,  and  fade  so  soon  away.  \Vhcn,  at  ihe^ 
bed  of  sickness,  1  behold  tke  efibrts  which  the  soul 
makes  to  oppose  its  impending  dissolution  from  the 
body,  and,  notwithstandiufy,  discover,  by  the  increasing 
tortures,  the  rapid  advances  of  approacliing  death  ; 
wdien  I  see  my  unhappy  patient  extend  his  cold  and 
trembling  hands,  to  thank  the  Almighty  for  the  smal- 
lest mitigation  of  his  pains  ;  when  I  hear  his  utterance 
checked  by  intcrmhigled  groans,  and  view  the  tender 
looks  and  silent  anguish  of  his  attending  fi  iendsp— all 
my  powers  abandon  me,  my  heart  bleeds,  and  I  tear 
myself  from  the  sorrov/ful  scene,  to  pour  my  tears 
more  freely  over  the  unhappy  sufferings  of  humanity, 
to  lament  my  own  inability,  and  the  vain  coniidence 
placed  in  a  feeble  art — a  confidence  which  men  have 
been  so  forward  to  abuse.  Conscious  of  the  ineiTicacy 
of  art,  I  never  rise  from  my  bed  w-ithout  thinking  it 
a  heavenly  miracle  that  I  ara  still  alive.  When  I  count 
the  number  of  my  years,  I  exclaim,  with  the  liveliest 
gratitude,  that  God  has  preserved  my  life  beyond  my 
expectation.  Through  what  a  sea  of  dangers  has  his 
goodness  conducted  me  !  Reflecting  every  moment 
on  the  weakness  of  my  condition,  and  behokling  men 
suddenly  snatched  away  before  me,  in  the  prime  and 
vigour  of  life — men  who,  but  a  few  hours  before,  en- 
tertained no  fear  of  death,  and  reckoned,  perhaps,  on  an 
extended  length  of  days  ;  wh?t  can  I  do  but  offer  up 
my  silent  adorations  to  that  Providence  who  has  thus 
saved  me  from  the  menaces  of  death  ! 

Is  it  possible  to  become  Avise,  and  escape  from  all 
the  perils  with  which  the  world  abounds,  without  re- 
nouncing its  dissipations,  and  entering  into  a  serious 


60  THE  INFLUENCE   OP   SOLITUDJL 

examination  of  ourselves  ?  It  is  then  only,  that  we  arc 
able  maturely  to  reflect  upon  what  we  hear  and  see  ; 
it  is  only  during]*  the  silent  occupation  of  the  mind,  that 
we  can  properly  view  those  interesting  objects,  to 
which,  in  order  to  render  them  more  useful  or  per- 
manent, we  can  never  devote  an  attention  sufticiently 
seridus. 

Wisdom  is  not  to  be  acquired  by  the  incessant  pur* 
suit  of  entertainments  ;  by  flying,  without  reflection, 
fi*om  one  party  to  another  ;  by  continual  conversation* 
©n  low  and  trifling  subjects  ;  by  undertaking  every 
thing,  and  doing  nothing.  "  He  who  would  acquire 
true  wisdom,"  says  a  celebrated  philosopher,  "  must 
learn  to  live  in  Solitude,"  An  uninterrupted  course  of 
dissipations,  stifles  every  virtuous  sentiment.  The 
dominion  of  reason  is  lost  amidst  the  intoxications  of 
pleasure  ;  its  voice  is  no  longer  heard  ;  its  authority 
no  longer  obeyed.  The  mind  no  longer  strives  to  sur- 
mount temptations  ;  but,  instead  of  avoiding  the  snares 
which  the  passions  lay  in  our  way,  we  seek  to  find 
theni.  The  precepts  of  religion  are  in  no  situation  so 
little  remembered,  as  in  the  ordinary  dissipations  of 
the  world.  Engaged  in  a  variety  of  absurd  pursuits, 
entranced  m  the  delirium  of  gaiety  and  pleasure,  in- 
flamed by  that  continual  Inebriety  which  raises  the 
passions,  and  stimulates  the  desires,  all  connexions 
between  God  and  man  are  broken  ;  and  we  abandon  the 
first  and  only  sovnxe  of  true  felicity,  renounce  the  fac* 
ulty  of  reason,  and  never  think  of  religious  duties  but 
with  levity  and  indifference.  On  the  contrary,  he 
who,  entering  into  a  serious  self-examination,  in  silent 
meditation,  elevates  his  thoughts  on  all  occasions  tO" 
wards  his  God  ;  who  considers  the  ampitheatre  of 
nature,  the  spangled  firmamerit  of  Heaven,  the  ver^ 
dant  meads  enamelled  with  flowers,  the  stupendous 
mountains,  and  the  silent  groves,  as  the  temples  of 
the  Divhiity  j  who  directs  the  emotions  of  his  hdar^ 


OK    THE    MIN0    AND    THE  HiiART*  61 

to  llie  Great  Authour  and  conductor  of  thing's  ;  who 
has  continually  before  his  eyes  his  enhghtened  Provi- 
dence, must,  most  assuredly,  have  already  learned  to 
live  in  pious  Solitude,  and  religious  meditation. 

Thus,  by  devoting  daily  only  as  many  hours  to 
silent  reflection  as  are  employed  at  the  toilette,  or 
consumed  at  the  card-table.  Solitude  may  be  rendered 
instrumental  in  leading  the  mind  to  piety,  and  the 
he^'t  to  virtue.  Meditation  and  reflection  convey 
every  moment  greater  force  and  solidity  to  the 
intellect,  excite*  abhorrence  of  too  frequent  inter- 
courses with  mankind,  and  create  disgust  of  their  idle 
entertainments.  We  may  cherish  the  best  intentions 
towards  our  fellow-creatures,  may  succour  them  in 
distress,  may  do  them  all  the  good  in  our  power,  .tmd 
yet  shun  the  luxury  of  their  feasts,  fly  from  their  co- 
teries, and  disdam  their  frivolous  pursuits. 

The  opportunities  of  exercising  great  virtues,  of 
performing  actions  of  extensive  utility  or  universal  be- 
nevolence, are  co]i lined  only  to  a  few  characters.  But 
how  fnany  silent  virtues  are  there,  which  every  man 
has  it  in  his  power  to  perform  without  quitting  hi'^ 
chamber  ?  He  who  can  contentedly  employ  himself  a- 
home,  may  continue  there  the  whole  year,  and  yet  in 
every  day  of  that  year,  may  contribute  to  the  felicity 
of  otiier  men  ;  he  may  listen  to  their  complaints,  re- 
lieve their  distress,  render  many  services  to  those 
who  sire  about  him,  and  extend  his  benevolence  in  va- 
rious ways,  without  being  seen  by  the  v/orld,  or  known 
by  those  on  whom  he  confers  liis  favours. 

A  strong  and  determined  inclination  for  Solitude,  i?i 
frequently  a  happy  omen  of  apious  disposition.  Youth 
frequently  experiencqs  a  vague  and  indefinable  gloom, 
which,  as  the  mind  advances  in  reascn,  dies  progress- 
ively away.  It  is  during  this  interval  that  we  begi»~ 
to  understand  the  human  character,  to  form  an  esti- 
mate of  outielVes,  to  pt;rceiv'e  tviiiit'we  ktej,  aiid  ieam 


■ 


62  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDU 

wjiat  we  ought  to  be.  At  this  period,  a  physical 
change  of  constitution,  turns  the  operations  of  the  soul 
into  a  new  direction  ;  conscience  awakens  itself,  and 
strongly  suggests  the  necessity  of  prostrating  our- 
selves before  the  throne  of  God.  Modesty  is  the  first 
lesson  of  adversity,  and  seli-distrusj;  the  first  proof  we 
receive  of  having  obtained  a  knowledge  of  ourselves. 
The  sophistry  of  the  passions  is  silent,  during  the  se- 
rious, solitary  hours  which  we  pass  in  sincere  self- 
examination.  If  we  sometimes  probe  too  deeply,  and 
become  gloomy  and  discontented  at  our  situation,  or 
fall  into  superstitious  phrenzies,  the  impressions,  alas ! 
jire  too  soon  effaced.  Yet  even  this  excess,  wheri 
compared  with  its  opposite  effectj  with  that  fatal  su- 
pineness  whicli  extmguishes  every  virtue,  is  a  real 
advantage.  The  sincere  mortification  we  feel  on  the 
discovery  of  our  defects,  is  converted  by  the  light  of  ^ 
pure  and  rational  faith,  mto  happy  ease,  and  perfect 
tranquility.  The  fanatic  enthusiast  presents  himself 
before  the  Almighty  muchoftener  than  the  supercili- 
ous wit,  who  scoffs  at  religion,  and  calls  piety  a 
weakness. 

The  study  of  ourselves  is  so  extremely  rare,  that 
we  o?jght  to  prize  every  thing  we  obtain  by  it  as  dear 
and  pi  ecious  treasures.  To  induce  us  to  renounce 
our  flighty,  futile  dissipations  ;  to  conquer  the  discosi- 
tent  which  drives  us  wandering  from  place  to  place, 
in  search  of  new  c!}jects  ;  to  force  us  into  an  examina- 
tion of  ourselves  :  Grief  must  awaken  us  from  our 
lethargic  pleasures.  Sorrow  must  open  our  eyes  to 
the  follies  of  the  world,  and  the  cup  of  Adversity  often 
embitter  our  lips.  Froni  a  conviction  of  this  truth  it 
was,  that  one  of  the  greatest  philosophers  of  Germa- 
ny, the  celebrated  Mr.  Garve,  exclaimed  to  Doctor 
Spalding  and  myself,  "  I  am  indebted  to  my  mala- 
"  dy,*for  having  led  me  to  make  a  closer  scrutiny,  m^ 
^  move  accii,rate  -observation  of  my  own  character.'^ 


©N  THE    MIKB    AM)    THE    lIEAUr.  60 

The  powers  of  religion  and  philosophy  are,  in  Soli- 
tude, united  to  conduct  us  lo  the  sanie  end.  Both  oi* 
them  teach  us  to  exannne  our  heavls  ;  boili  of  theiii 
tell  us,  that  we  cannot  guard  with  too  serious  an  ap- 
prehension against  the  dangers  of  ianaiicism,  nor  decry 
them  with  too  loud  a  voice  ;  but  thty  ah<o  instruct  us, 
that  if  virtue  cannot  be  instilled  into  the  soul,  without 
its  undergoing  some  convulsions,  yet  we  ought  not  to 
be  discouraged  by  the  fear  of  danger.  It  is  not  in  tlie 
moment  of  joy,  v/hen  we  turn  our  eyes  from  God,  and 
think  not  of  eternity,  that  we  experience  these  salutary 
convulsions  of  the  soul.  Even  religion,  with  all  her 
powers,  cannot  produce  them  so  soon  as  a  corj)orcal 
malady,  or  mental  afHiction.  But  if  the  soul  advances 
too  slowly  in  the  heroic  course  of  virtue  ;  if,  amidst 
the  bustle  of  the  world,  the  suggestions  of  conscience 
lose  their  pov/er,  let  every  one  retire,  as  frequently 
as  he  ])ossibly  can,  into  Solitude,  and  tl*ere  prostrate 
himself  before  God  and  his  own  hearts 

In  the  last  moments  of  life,  it  is  certain  that  we  all 
wish  we  had  li\  ed  more  in  Solitude,  in  a  greater  inti- 
macy with  ourselves,  and  in  a  closer  communion  with 
God,  Pressed  by  their  recollection,  we  then  clearly 
perceive,  that  all  our  faults  have  happened  from  not 
shunning  the  snares  of  the  world  ;  from  not  having 
kept  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  wanderings  of  the  heart, 
in  the  midst  of  those  dangers  by  which  it  was  sur- 
rounded. If  we  were  to  oppose  the  sentiments  of  a 
solitary  man,  who  had  passed  his  life  in  pious  confer- 
ence with  God,  to  the  sentiments  which  occupy  the 
minds  of  dissipated  men,  who  never  think  of  their 
Creator,  and  sacrifice  their  whole  existence  to  the  en- 
joyments of  the  moment  :  If  we  com.pare  the  charac- 
ter of  a  WISE  MAN,  who  reflects  in  silence  on  the 
importance  of  eternity,  with  that  of  the  fashionable 
BEING,  who  consumes  all  his  time  at  ridottos,  balls, 
ind  assemblies  ;  we  shall  then  perceive  that  an  incll- 


^4  THE  INFLUEl^CE    OF    SOLITUDE 

nation  for  Solitude,  a  dignified  retirement,  a  desire  of 
having  a  select  friend,  and  a  rational  society,  can  alone 
afford  us  true  pleasure,  and  give  us,  beyond  all  the 
vain  enjoyments  of  the  world,  consolation  in  death, 
and  hopes  of  eternal  life. 

It  is,  however,  upon  the  bed  of  death  that  we  dis^ 
cover,  more  than  in  any  other  situation,  the  great 
difference  between  the  just  man,  who  has  passed 
Jiis  days  in  calm  religious,  contemplation,  and  ihm 
MAN  OF  THE  woKLD,  whose  thoughts  liavc  only  becQ 
employed  to  feed  his  passions,  ajiid  gratify  his  desires.. 
A  life  passed  amidst  the  tumultuous  dissipations  of 
the  world,  even  when  unsullied  by  the  commission 
of  any  crime,  concludes,  alas  !  very  differently  from 
that  which  has  been  spent  in  Solitude,  in  innocei)ce, 
m  virtue. 

As  example  teaches  m^ore  effectually  than  precept, 
sis  curiosity  is  more  alive  to  recent  facts  than  to  remote 
transactions,  I  shall  here  relate  the  history  of  a  man 
of  family  and  fashion,  who,  a  few  years  since,  shot 
himself  in  London  ;  from  which  it  w^ill  appear,  that 
oaen  possessed  even  of  the  best  feelings  of  the  heart, 
may  be  rendered  extremely  miserable,  by  suffering 
their  principles  to  be  corrupted  by  the  practices  of 
the  world, 

THE  Honourable  Mr.  Damer,  the  eldest  son  of 
Lord  Milton,  was  five  and  thirty  years  of  age  when 
he  put  a  period  to  his  existence,  by  means  perfectly 
correspondent  to  the  principles  on  which  he  had  lived. 
He  had  espoused  a  rich  heiress,  the  daughter-in-law  of 
General  Conw^ay.  Nature  had  endowed  him  with 
extraordinary  talents  ;  and  if  he  had  employed  them 
for  nobler  purposes,  his  death  must  have  made  the 
deepest  impression  on  every  bosom.  Unhappily, 
however,  a  most  infatuated  love  of  dissipation  destroy- 
<&i\  ajl  the  powers  of  his  mind,  and  some  of  the  rnorQ 


GN  THE    MII%D    AND    THE    HEAHT.  ,65 

excellent  qualities  of  his  heart.  His  houses,  his  car- 
riages, his  horses,  his  liveries,  surpassed  in  magnifi- 
cence and  elegance,  every  thing  that  is  sumptuous 
in  the  metropolis  of  England.  The  income  he  enjoy- 
ed was  splendid  ;  but  not  being'  quite  sufficient  to  defray 
J4li  his  expences,  he  felt  himself  under  the  necessity  of 
borrowing,  and  he  obtained  a  loan  of  one  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  pounds.  A  large  portion  of  the  mo- 
ney Y\ais  immediatoiy  employed  to  succour  those  of 
his  friends  who  appeared  to  be  distressed  ;  for  his 
sentiments  were  tender  and  compassionate  :  but  his 
sensibility  to  the  wants  of  others  at  length  obliged 
him  to  open  his  eyes  to  his  own.  The  situation  in 
which  he  found  his  aflairs  led  him  to  despair  ;  he  re- 
tired to  a  brothel,  sent  for  four  women  of  the  town, 
and  passed  four  hours  Avith  infinite  gaiety  and  spirits 
in  their  company.  On  the  near  approach  of  mid- 
night, he  requested  they  would  retire  ;  and  in  a  few 
moments  aftt^rwards,  drawing  from  his  pocket  a  loaded 
pistol,  which  he  had  carried  about  with  him  all  the 
aftei'noon,  bknv  out  his  brains.  He  had  passed  the 
evening*  with  tiiese  women  in  the  same  manner  as  he 
had  been  used  to  pass  many  others,  with  diiferent  wo- 
men of  the  same  desci-iption,  without  insisting  on 
favours  which  they  would  most  willingly  have  granted. 
The  common  conversation  of  such  interviews,  or  at 
most  the  liberty  of  a  salute,  was  all  he  desired  or  ex- 
pected from  them,  in  return  for  his  money.  The 
gratitude  he  felt  for  the  temporary  oblivion  which 
these  intercourses  occasioned,  ripened  in  his  bosom 
into  the  feelings  of  the  warmest  friendship. 

A  celebrated  actress  on  the  London  theatre,  whose 
con-versatlons  had  already  drained  him  of  considerable 
sums  of  money,  requested  of  him,  only  three  days 
before  his  death,  to  lend  her  ?i\Q  and  twenty  guineas. 
He  returned  an  answer,  that  he  had  not  at  that  time 
more  than  tigh:;  or  ten  guineas  at  his  command;  and 
F    2 


#6  JKE  INFLUEKCE    OV    SOLITUDE 

these  he  sent  to  her  ;  but  he  immediately  borrowed 
the  remainder,  and  gave  her  the  sum  required. 

This  unhappy  young  man,  siiortly  before  the  fatal 
catastrophe,  had  written  to  his  father,  and  disclosed 
the  real  state  of  his  affairs  ;  and  the  night,  the  very 
night  on  which  he  terminated  his  existence,  his  affec- 
tionate parent,  the  good  Lord  Milton,  arrived  in 
London,  for  the  purpose  of  paying  all  the  debts  of  his 
son.  Thus  lived  and  died  this  destitute  and  dissipat- 
ed man  !  Hov/  different  from  the  life  and  death  of  the 
innocent  and  virtuous  ! 

I  trust  I  shall  be  forgiven  in  reciting  here,  the  story 
of  a  Young  Lady,  whose  memory  I  am  anxious  to 
preserve  ;  for  I  can  with  great  triith  say  of  her,  as 
Petrarch  said  of  his  beloved  Laura,  "  The  world 
''  is  unacquainted  with  tlie  excellence  of  her  charac- 
"  ter  ;  for  she  was  only  known  to  those  whom  she  has 
*»  left  behind  to  bewail  her  fate." 

Solitude,  in  her  mind,  supplied  the  place  of  the 
world  ;  for  she  knew  no  other  ])leasures  than  those 
which  a  retired  and  virtuous  life  affords.  Submitting, 
with  pious  resignation,  to  all  the  dispensation  of  Hea- 
ven, she  sustained,  although  naturally  of  a  weak  con» 
stitution,  every  affliction  with  undiminished  fortitude. 
Mild,  good,  tender,  yet  cndurhig  her  incessant  suffer- 
ings without  a  murmur  or  a  sigh  ;  timid,  reserved,  but 
disclosing  all  the  feelings  of  her  soul  with  a  kind  of  fi- 
lial enthusiasm  :  of  this  description  was  the  superior 
character  of  whom  I  now  write — a  character  who  con- 
vinced me,  by  her  fortitude  under  the  severests  mis- 
fortunes, how  much  strength  Solitude  is  capable  of 
conveying  to  the  minds  even  of  the  feeblest  beings.— 
Diffident  of  lier  own  powers,  she  relied  with  the  most 
perfect  confidence  upon  God  ;  and  guided  herself,  in 
ev^ery  thing,  by  my  precepts.  Taught  by  my  experi- 
ence, submitting  to  my  judgement,  she  felt  for  me 
the  most  ardsjut  affection  ;  and,  without  making  any 


ON  rnZ   MINB    AND   THU    HEART.  ^f^ 

professions,  convinced  me,  by  her  actions,  of  its  sin- 
cerity. Willingly  would  I  have  sacrificed  my  life  to 
save  her  ;  and  I  am  satisfied  she  v/ould  have  given  hei' 
own  for  me.  My  greatest  happiness  consisted  in  do- 
ing every  thing  that  I  thought  was  most  agreeable  to 
her.  She  frequently  presented  ra€  with  a  rose,  a  pre- 
sent from  which  she  kaew  I  received  considerable  de- 
light ;  and  from  her  hand  it  was  superior  to  the  richest 
treasure.  A  mslady  of  almost  a  singular  kind,  a  hae- 
morrhage of  the  lungs,  suddenly  deprived  me  of  the 
comfort  of  this  beloved  child,  even  while  I  supported 
her  in  my  arms.  Acquainted  with  her  constitution,  I 
immediately  saw  the  blow  was  mortal.  liow  frcqiient- 
ly,  during  that  fatal  day,  did  my  wounded,  bleetling 
heart  bend  me  on  my  knees,  before  my  God,  to  im- 
plore her  recovery  !  But  I  concealed  my  feelings  from 
her  observation.  Although  sensible  of  her  danger,  she 
never  communicated  the  least  apprehension.  Smiles 
arose  upon  her  cheeks  whenever  I  entered  or  quitted 
the  chamber.  Although  worn  down  by  this  fatal  dis- 
temper, a  prey  to  the  most  corroding  griefs,  the  sharp- 
est and  most  intolenible  pains,  she  made  no  complaint. 
She  mildly  answered  all  my  questions  by  some  short 
sentence,  but  without  entering  into  any  detail.  Her 
decay  and  appi'oaching  dissolution  became  obvious  to 
the  eye  ;  but,  to  the  last  moment  of  her  life,  her  coun- 
tenance preserved  a  serenity  equal  to  the  purity  of 
her  mind  and  the  affectionate  tenderness  of  her  heart. 
Thus  I  beheld  my  dear,  my  only  daughter,  after  a 
lingering  sufferance  of  nine  long  months,  expire  in  my 
arms  !  Exclusive  of  the  usual  internal  a])pearances 
which  attend  a  consumption  of  the  lungs,  the  liver  was 
extremely  large,  the  stomach  uncommonly  small  and 
contracted,  and  the  viscera  much  overcharged.  So 
many  attacks,  alas  1  Were  needless  to  the  conquest— 
S^he  had  been  the  submissive  victim  of  ill  health,  from 
her  earliest  infancy  ;  h^v  appetite  was  almost  gone  ~ 


"X 


$i  THE  INFLTfENCE    OF    SOLITUDS 

"^vhen  weleft  Switzerland  ;  a  residence  which  she  quit* 
ted  with  her  lisiial  sv/eetness  of  temper,  and  without  dis- 
covering the  siiialiest  regret — aki\ough  .a  young  man, 
as  handsome  in  his  person  as  he  was  amiable  in  the 
qualities  of  his  mind,  the  object  of  her  first,  her  only 
affection,  a  few  wrecks  afterwards  pat  an  end  to  his  ex- 
istence, in  despair. 

The  few  happy  days  we  passed  at  Hanover,  where 
she  was  much  respected  and  beloved,  she  amused  her- 
self by  composhig  religious  prayers,  which  were  af- 
terwards found  among  her  papers,  and  in  which  she 
implores  death  to  a  [lord  her  a  speedy  relief  from  her 
pains.  She  w^rote,  also,  many  Jctters,  alwiays  affect- 
ing and  frequently  sublime,  during  the  same  period  : 
they  were  filled  with  expressions  of  tlie  same  desire 
speedily  to  re-unile  her  soul  with  the  au.thor  of  her 
days*  The  last  words  my  dear,  my  beloved  child  ut- 
tered, amidbt  the  most  painful  agonies,  were  these  :— 
"  To-day  I  sirall  tasle  the  joys  of  Heaven  i" 

We  should  be  unworthy  of  this  bright  example  if, 
after  having  seen  the  severest  sufferings  sustained  by 
a  female,  in  the  earliest  period  of  life,  and  of  the  weak- 
est constitution  by  natui.-e,  we  permitted  our  minds  to 
be  dejected  by  misfortunes,  when  by  the  smallest  de- 
gree of  courage  v/e  may  be  enabled  to  surmount  them. 
A  female  who,  under  the  anguish  of  inexpressible  tor- 
ments, never  permitted  the  sigh  of  complaint  to  es- 
cape from  her  lips  ;  but  submitted,  with  silent  resign- 
ation, to  the  will  of  Heaven,  in  hope  of  meeting  with 
reward  hereafter.  She  was  ever  active,  invariably 
mild,  always  compassionate  to  the  miseries  of  others. 
But  WE,  who  have  before  our  eyes  the  sublime  instruc- 
tions which  a  character  thus  virtuous  and  noble  has 
given  us,  under  the  pressure  of  a  fatal  disease,  under 
the  horrours  of  continued  and  bitter  agonies  ;  we,  w^ho 
like  her,  aspire  to  the  attainment  of  the  glorious  seat 
of  happiness  and  peace;  refuse  to  submit  to  the  smal- 


O^  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HUAllT.  69 

lest  sacrifice,  make  no  endeavour  to  oppose  the  storms 
of  fortune  by  the  exertion  of  courage,  or  to  aoquire 
that  patience  and  resignation  which  a  candid  examina- 
tion of  our  own  hearts,  and  a  silent  communion  with 
God,  would  certainly  afford. 

Sensible  and  unfortunate  beings  !  the  lif^-htest  afflic- 
tions, when  compared  with  griefs  like  mine,  drive  you, 
^t  present,  to  disquietude  and  despair.  But  you  may 
{^iVQ  credit  to  experience— 'they  will  eventually  rais^ 
your  minds  above  the  low  considerations  of  the  world, 
^id  give  a  strength  to  your  powers  which  you  no\f 
conceive  to  be  impossible.  You  now  think  your-*^ 
twelves  sunk  into  the  deepest  abyss  of  suffering  and 
sorrow  ;  but  the  time  will  soon  arrive  when  you  will 
perceive  yourselves  m  that  happy  situation  which  lie^ 
between  an  attachment  to  the  earth  and  a  foi^d  devo- 
tion to  Heaven.  You  will  then  feel  a  calm  repose,  be 
susceptible  of  pleasures  equally  substantial  and  sub- 
lime.; your  minds  will  be  withdrawn  from  the  tumult* 
uous  anxieties  of  life,  and  filled  with  serene  and  com-r 
fortable  sentiments  of  immortality.  Blessed,  supreme- 
ly blessed  is  that  being  who  knows  the  value  of  a  life 
passed  in  I'etirement  and  tranq\iility  ;  who  is  capable 
,pf  enjoying  the  silence  of  the  groves,  and  the  relire-* 
ment  of  rural  Sohtude.  The  soul  then  tastes  celes- 
tial pleasures,  even  under  the  deepest  impressions  of 
sorrow  and  dejection  :  regains  its  strenf-^'th,  collects 
new  courage,  and  acts  with  perfect  freedom.  The  eye 
looks  with  steadiness  on  the  transient  suiTcr in gs  of  dis- 
ease ;  the  mind  no  longer  feels,  a  dread  of  Solitude  ; 
^nd  we  learn  to  cultivate,  dunng  the  remainder  of  our 
lives,  a  bed  of  roses  rouncl  even  the  tomb  of  death. 


yO  '    THE  INFLUENCE    OP    SOLITCDK 

CHJPTER  THE  THIRD. 

Tilt  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE    UPON    THE    MIND* 

X.  HE  inestimable  value  of  fiberty,  can  onlvbe  con- 
ceived by  minds  that  are  free.  Slaves  are  forced  to 
be  content,  even  in  their  bondage.  He  who  has-been 
long  tossed  aboat  by  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune  ;  wha 
has  learned  from  the  suiTerings  of  his  own  experience 
to  form  a  just  estimate  of  men  and  things  ;  who  can 
examine  every  object  with  impartiality  ;  and,  walkin^^ 
in  the  steep  and  narrow  paths  of  virtue,  derive 
his  happiness  from  his  own  mind,  may  be  accounted 

'  The  path  of  virtue  is  indeed  rugged,  dreary,  hvA 
finsocial  ;  but  it  conducts  the  mind  from  painful  diiTi- 
culdes  to  sublime  repose^  and  fj-ently  carries  us  over 
the  acclivities  of  life,  into  the  delig'htful  and  extensive 
plains  of  happiness  and  ease.  The  love  of  Solitude, 
when  cultivated  to  a  certain  extent,  at  an  early  period 
of  our  lives,  inspires  the  heart  with  a  noble  independ- 
ence ;  especially  in  the  breasts  of  those  youths,  whose 
easy,  uncorrupted  souls  are  yet  susceptible  of  virtuous' 
impressions  :  it  is  to  such  characters  alone  that  mf 
precepts  can  prove  useful  ;  it  is  to  such  characters 
alone,  I  here  pretend  to  point  out  the  IVT.y  w^hich 
leads  to  true  felicity. 

■  I  do  not,  however,  v/ish  to  conduct  tliem  through 
the  paths  of  misery  to  the  retreats  of  Solitude,  but 
would  rather  induce  them  to  seek  retirement  from  a 
dislike  to  dissipation,  a  distaste  to  tlie  idle  pleasures 
of  life,  a  contempt  for  the  treacherous  professions  of 
the  world,  a  dread  of  bein^;  seduced  by  its  insinuating 
and  deceitful  gaieties. 


OJf  THE    MIND    ANB    TJIE    HEART.  ^  I 

IVIany  men  have  acquired  and  experienced  in  SoVw 
tude  that  superiority  of  genius  which  enables  it$ 
possessors  to  command  events.  Like  the  majestic  ce- 
dar which  braves  the  fury  of  the  wildest  wind,  there 
are  many  champions  of  virtue  who  have  resisted  in 
retirement  the  storms  of  vipe.  It  has  indeed  happenr 
ed,  that  some  men  have  retained,  even  in  Solitude,  all 
the  weaknesses  of  human  nature  ;  but  there  are  also 
many  others,  who  have  proved  that  wise  men  cannot 
become  degenerate,  even  in  the  most  dreary  seclusion. 
Visited  by  the  august  spirits  of  the  dead,  left  to  listen 
to  their  own  thouglits,  and  secluded  from  the  sight  of 
every  breathing  object,  they  must  converse  with  God 
done. 

There  are  two  periods  of  life  ni  wliich  Solitude  be- 
xomes  peculiarly  useful  :  In  youth,  to  acquire  a  fund 
of  useful  information,  to  form  the  outline  of  the  cha-r 
racter  we  mean  to  support,  and  to  fix  the  modes  of 
thinking  we  ought  through  life  invariably  to  pursue  : 
in  age,  to  cast  a  retrospective  eye  on  the  course  of 
the  life  we  have  led,  to  reflect  on  the  events  that  hav«^ 
happened,  upon  all  the  flowers  we  have  gathered,  upr 
on  all  the  tempests  we  have  survived. 

Lord  Boljngbroke  says,  that  there  is  not  adteep- 
.er  nor  a  finer  observation  in  all  Lord  Bacon's  works, 
than  the  following,  "  We  must  chuse,  betimes,  such 
>^  virtuous  objects  as  are  proportioned  to  the  means 
*'  we  have  of  pursuing  them,  and  as  belong  particu- 
"  larly  to  the  statioiis  we  are  in,  and  the  duties  of 
''  those  stations.  We  must  detennme  and  f^x  our 
<^  minds  in  such  a  manner  upon  them,  that  the  pur-? 
"  suit  of  them  may  become  the  business^  and  the 
•'  attainment  of  them   the  eiid  of  our  whole  lives*. 

Lord  Bolingeroke,  in  his  "  Idea  of  a  Patriot 
Kin^^'  has  paraphrased  the  original,  "  Ut  \ontiniio  x^er- 
^'  tat  et  efformet  se  animus^  una  ofiera^  in  virtiite^ 
*^  omnf5,"'m  order  to  apply  it  witli  greater  eSect  to  th^ 
occasion  for  which  he  quotes  it. 


i[%  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

<<  Thus  we  shall  imitate  the  great  operations  of  nattire, 
<'  and  not  the  feeble,  slow,  and  imperfeet  operations  of 
*'  art.  We  must  not  proceed  in  forming  the  moral 
«  character,  as  a  statuary  proceeds  in  forming  a  statue, 
"  who  %yorks  sometimes  on  the  face,  sometimes  on 
*^  one  part,  and  sometimes  on  another  ;  but  we  must 
''  proceed,  and  it  is  in  our  power  to  proceed,  as  nature 
"  does  in  forming  a  ilower,  or  any  other  of  her  pro- 
''  ductions  ;  redimeiita  par  Hum  Gmnium  simzil  paret  et 
^*  producit  ;  she  throws  out  altogether  and  at  once 
*'  the  whole  system  of  every  being',  and  the  rudiments 
"  of  all  the  parts."  -^ 

Ye  amiable  youths,  from  whose  minds  the  artifices 
and  gaieties  of  the  world  have  not  yet  obliterated  th6 
precepts  of  a  vn^tuous  education  ;  who  are  not  yet  in- 
fected with  its  inglorious  vanities  ;  who,  still  ignorant 
of  the  tricks  and  blandishments  of  seduction,  have 
preserved  in'  your  souls  the  desire  to  perform  some 
glorious  action,  and  retained  the  power  to  accom- 
plish it  ;  who,^  in  the  midst  of  feasting,  dancing,  and 
assemblies,  feci  an  inclination  to  escape  from  their 
unsatisfactory  delights — Solitude  will  afford  you  a 
safe  asylum.  Let  the  voice  of  experience  recommend 
you  to  cultivate  a  fondness  for  domestic  pleasure,  to 
rouse  and  fortify  your  souls  to  noble  deeds,  to  acquire 
that  fine  and  noble  spirit  which  teaches  you  to  esti- 
mate the  characters  of  men,  and  the  pleasures  of 
society,  by  tl^eir  intrinsic  values. 

You  wiil  find  it  absolutely  necessary  to  force  your- 
tjelves  from  a  world  too  trifling  and  insignificant  to 
afford  you  any  great  examples.  It  is  in  studying  the 
chara:cters  of  the  Greeks,  the  Romans,  the  English, 
that  you  must  learn  to  surmount  every  difficulty.  In 
what  nation  will  you  find  more  celebrated  instances- of 
human  greatness  ?  What  people  possess  more  valour 
'  and  courage,  more  firmness,  more  knowledge, ~  a 
greater  love  for  the  arts  and  sciences  ?    But  do  not 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  75 

deceive  yourselves  by  believing  that  wearing  the  hair 
cut  short  will  make  you  Mnglishnien,  You  must,  in- 
stead of  that,  eradicate  the  vices,  subdue  the  weaknes- 
ses of  your  nature,  and  only  imitate  them  in  their 
peculiar  greatness.  It  is  the  love  of  liberty^  the  quali- 
ties of  courage,  penetration,  sublimity  of  sentiment, 
and  strength  of  reason,  that  constitute  the  true  Eng" 
lishman^  and  not  their  half-boots  and  jockey  hats.  It 
is  vi7'tue  alone,  and  not  titles^  that  elevates  the  charac- 
ters of  men.  An  illustrious  descent  is  certainly  an 
advantage,  but  not  a  merit.  I  honour  you  for  having 
already  formed  a  proper  estimate  of  these "  splendid 
trifles,  for  having  already  learned,*  that  he  who  vene- 
rates such  little  objects,  can  never  attain  to  greatness. 
Let  women  only  boast  of  hereditary  descent,  of  a  line 
of  ancestors,  who,  during  a  course  of  centuries,  were, 
perhaps,  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  mankind, 
nierely  by  the  splendour  of  their  equipage,  while  the 
humble  citizen  was  forced  to  follow  on  foot.  In  trac- 
ing your  genealogies,  reckon  those  only  among  the 
number  of  your  ancestors,  who  have  performed  some 
great  and  glorious  action,  whose  fame  shines  with 
brilliancy  in  every  page  of  their  country's  history, -ai^d 
whose  characters  are  cited  with  applause  and  admira- 
tion in  distant  nations  :  but  never  lose  sight  of  this 
important  truth,  that  no  one  can  be  truly  great,  v/ith- 
4>ut  a  knowledge  of  himself. 

In  your  journey  through  life,  two  ways  lie  open  t^ 
your  choice.  The  one  v/ill  conduct  you  to  a  fragrant 
garden,  through  delightful  groves,  perfumed  with  the 
sweetest  odours,  where  a  verdant  bed,  bedecked  with 
roses,  will  invite  your  enchanted  senses  to  a  soft  re- 
pose ;  this  is  the  path  of  pleasure,  which  the  multi- 
tude are  easily  seduced  to  follow,  and  where  music, 
dancing,  and  love,  offer  to  every  sense  such  variety 
of  delight.  The  other  is  a  less  frequented  way,  rug- 
ged ^d  uneven?  the  progress  through  it  slow,  where, 

G 


74  THE  INFLUENCE    07   SOLITUDE 

while  the  wearied  passenger  toils  along,  ke  ffeqiient^y 
tumbles  down  some  dangerous  precipice,  which  to  him 
appeared  at  a  greater  distance.  Here  the  cries  of 
savage  animals  alone  are  heard,  the  incessant  croak- 
ings  of  the  boding  raven,  the  sharp  and  shivering 
hisses  of  the  wily  serpent  ;  and  the  silent  unbounded 
desart  which  reigns  around,  inspires  the  mind  with 
terror  and  affright,  llie  path  of  pleasure  leads  us  to 
the  world  ;  the  rude  and  rugged  way  is  the  road  to 
honour.  The  one  conducts  you  through  society,  to 
places  and  en\ployments  either  in  the  city  or  at  court ; 
the  other,  sooner  or  later,  will  lead  you  into  Solitude. 
Upon  the  one  road  you  will,  perhaps,  become  a  vil- 
lain ;  a  villain  rendered  dear  and  amiable  by  your  vices 
to  society.  Upon  the  other  road,  it  is  true,  you  may 
be  hated  and  despised  ;  but  you  will  become  a  man  ; 
a  man  after  my  own  heart. 

The  rudiments  of  a  great  character  must  be  formed 
in  Solitude.  It  is  there  alone  that  the  solidity  of 
thought?  the  fondness  for  activity,  the  abhorrence  of 
indolence,  which  constitute  the  hero  and  the  sage,  are 
first  acquired.  Many  celebrated  Germans  of  my  ac,- 
quaintance,  lived  solitary  lives,  unconnected  with  so- 
ciety, during  their  residence  at  the  university.  They 
shunned  the  fashionable  vices  of  the  collegians,  and 
preserved  their  native  purity  ;  they  adopted  a  stoi» 
cism,  and  preserved  not  only  their  chastity,  but  their 
application  to  study.  They  are  now  become  ministers 
oif  state,  celebrated  writers,  ^nd  great  philosophers, 
who  have  diffused  wisdom,  banished  prejudice,  and 
from  their  earliest  youth,  opened  new  roads  in  life, 
utterly  unknown  to  vulgar  minds. 

A  tribute  of  the  highest  gratitude  is  due  to  the  no* 
ble  character  who  has  observed,  "  When  you  behold 
«  a  youth  of  solid  parts  withdraw  himself  from  the 
^  world,  fall  into  a  low  and  melancholy  humour,  be- 
^<  come  silent  in  company,  and  testify  by  the  severity 


©N  THE    MIND    ANB    THE    HEART.  iD 

^^  of  his  manners,  and  coldness  of  his  feehngs,  tha< 
'^  the  colitemptibie  beings  with  whom  he  has  associa 
"  ted  have  inspired  his  soul  with  disgust ;  if  you  pci 
'<  Ceive  that  his  mind  emits  its  rays  like  Hashes  oi 
<'  lightning  in  the  obscurity  of  a  dark  night,  and  then 
'^  falls  into  a  long  and  silent  calm  ;  if  you  discover  that. 
'^  he  feels  himself  surrounded  by  a  painful  void,  and 
"  thcit  every  object  v/hich  presents  itself  only  inspires 
''  his  mind  with  new  aversion  and  disgust  ;  you 
"  then  behold,  notwitiistanding;,  he  has  not  openly 
<'  complained,  a  happy  plant,  which  only  requires  the 
*'  cultivation  of  a  judicious  hand  to  bring  forth  its 
"  fruits,  and  disclose  its  beauties.  O  !  apply  to  it  i> 
'*  fostering  care.  It  will  becomf*  worthy  of  your  kind 
"  ness  ;  and  he  who  stops  the  progress  of  its  life,  is 
"  the  most  detestable  of  murderers." 

To  rear  a  youth  of  this  description,  would  form  the 
joy  and  pleasure  of  my  future  days.  I  would  nourish 
hifn  in  my  very  heart.  I  woidd  vvatch  over  him  with 
the  teiiderest  care.  I  would  conceal  his  growing  vir- 
tues from*  the  jealous  and  maUgnant  observation  of  en- 
vious eyes  ;  prevent  their  endeavours  to  suppress  the 
efforts  of  a  genius  surpassing  their  own  ;  and,  with  a 
a  single  whisper,  I  would  drive  away  those  noxiou;* 
vermin,  enervated  and  insipid  men  of  fashion,  from 
my  healthful  plant.  If,  however,  such  an  amiable 
youth  did  not  immediately  listen  to  my  voice  and  be- 
come obedient  to  my  precepts  ;  if  he  did  not  alto- 
gether despise  the  manners  of  the  world,  I  would  let 
liim  occasionally  sail  among  the  rocks  of  life,  and 
permit  him  to  be  gently  wrecked  in  situations  where 
experience,  deficient  of  the  powers  of  youth,  would 
have  escaped  from  danger. 

Solitude  sometimes  beJ2:ets  a  degree  of  arrogance 
and  obstinancy  ;  but  a  little  experience  in  the  world 
soon  eradicates  these  defects.  The  misanthropy  of 
these  noble  youths,  their  contempt  of  folly,  and  th^> 


76  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

pride  of  spirit,  changes  by  the  maturity  of  age  into 
dignity  of  character,  and  gives  them  a  more  gene- 
rous intrepidity,  a  more  exalted  contempt  of  that  fear 
which  youth  naturally  entertain  in  the  society  of  men. 
Tlie  satires  they  once  dreaded  then  lose  all  their  keen- 
ness, and  only  form  a  contrast  of  what  things  are 
with  what  they  ought  to  be.  Their  contempt  for 
vice  rises  into  a  noble  enthusiasm  for  virtue  ;  and 
they  extract  from  the  long  intellectual  war  of  expe- 
rience a  complete  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  com- 
passionate feeling  which,  however-  it  may  occasion- 
ally swerve,  will  never  die. 

But  there  is  also  a  science  of  the  heart  too  fre- 
quently neglected,  and  with  which  it  is  necessary,  at 
least  as  far  as  it  is  possible,  to  familiarise  ourselves  in 
early  youth.  This  is  the  noble  science  of  philosophy, 
which  forms  the  characters  of  men,  which  teaches  us 
to  attain  the  end  we  wish  rather  by  the  blandishments 
of  love  than  by  the  efforts  of  pov/er  ;  a  science  which 
corrects  the  cold  dictates  of  reason  by  the  warm  feel- 
ings of  the  heart,  opens  to  view  the  dangers  to  which 
they  are  exposed,  animates  the  dormant  faculties  of 
the  mind,  and  prompts  them  to  the  practice  of  all 
the  virtues. 

Dion  had  been  brought  up  in  all  the  baseness  and 
servility  of  courts  ;  he  was  occustomed  to  a  life  of 
softness  and  effeminacy,  and,  which  is  more  perni- 
cious, to  a  life  of  great  magnificence,  profusion,  and 
pleasure  of  every  kind  :  but  no  sooner  had  he  read 
the  divine  Plato,  no  sooner  had  he  tasted  of  that  re- 
fined philoso])hy  which  leads  to  a  life  of  virtue,  than 
his  whole  soul  became  deeply  enamoured  of  its  charms. 

The  inspirations  which  Dion  caught  from  reading 
the  works  of  Plato,  every  mother  may,  silently  and 
unperceived,  pour  into  the  mind  of  her  child.  Philo- 
sophy, from  tlie  lips  of  a  wise  and  sensible  mother, 
penetrates  into  the  mind  through  the  feelings  of  the 


ON   THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  *tt 

heart.  Who  is  not  fond  of  walking  even  through  the 
roughest  and  most  difficult  path,  when  conducted  by 
the  hand  they  love  ?  What  spepies  of  instruction  can 
excel  the  sweet  lessons  which  proceed  from  a  female 
mind,  endowed  with  u  sound  understanding,  an  elevat- 
ed style  of  thinking,  and  whose  heart  feels  all  the 
aiTection  that  her  precepts  inspire  ?  Oh  !  may  every 
mother  so  endowed,  be  blessed  with  a  child  who  foncb- 
ly  retires  with  her  to  her  closet,  and  listens  with 
delight  to  her  instructions  ;  who,  with  a  book  m  his 
pocket,  loves  to  c^imb  among  the  rocks,  alone  ;  who, 
when  eng^aged  in  rural  sport,  throv/s  himself  at  the 
foot  of  some  venerable  tree,  and  seeks  rather  to  trace 
out  great  and  illustrious  characters  in  the  pages  of 
Plutarch,  than  to  toil  for  game  in  the  thickets  of 
the  surrounding  woods.  The  wishes  of  a  mother  are 
accomplished  when  the  Solitude  and  silence  of  the 
forests  excite  such  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  her  be- 
loved child*  ;  when  he  begins  to  think  that  there  are 
still  greater  characters  than  the  Burgomaster  and 
Counsellor  of  the  town,  or  even  than  the  noble  Lord 
of  the  surrounding  villages  ;  characters  who  enjoy 
more  pure  and  elevated  pleasures  than  the  gaming  ta- 
ble or  assemblies  are  capable  of  affordmg  ;  characters 
who  c^t  every  interval  of  liesure  seek  the  shades  of  So- 
litude with  rapture  and  delight  ;  in  whose  minds,  the 
love  of  literature  and  philosophy  has  dwelt  from  their 
earliest  infancy  ;  whose  hearts  these  studies  have 
warmed  and  animated  at  every  subsequent  period  of 
their  lives  ;  and  who,  amidst  the  greatest  dangers, 
preserve  that  delightful  taste  which  has  power  to  ban- 
ish melancholy  from  the  deepest  cavern,  and  dejection 
from  the  most  frightful  desert. 

*  "  Mirum  est^''  says  the  younger  Pliny,  "  ut  aninms 
**  agltatione  mot^que  corfiaris  excitetur.     Jam'  U7idigue 
"  silva  €t   Solitudo  ifiaorumque  illud  silentium^  quod  ve- 
*^  nationi  datur^  magna  cogitationis  iiicit amenta  sunC'l 
G   2 


78  THE  INFLTJENCE    OF    SOLITVBE 

But  suppose  a  son  thus  educated  at  length  fixed  in 
the  metropolis  ;  think  how  every  object  must  excite 
disgust  in  his  breast,  and  render  him  unhappy.  It  is, 
therefore,  proper  to  instruct  him,  that  a  wise  and  sen- 
fcible  man,  whatever  may  be  his  situation  in  life,  his 
age,  or  the  country  he  inhabits,  may  find  in  Solitude 
innumerable  resources  against  the  insipidity  of  socie- 
ty, and  all  the  false  and  deceitful  joys  of  the  world. 

The  provincial  towns  possess  many  advantages 
over  great  and  populous  cities,  by  bringing  us  back 
to  a  knowledge  of  ourselves.  With  what  superior 
pleasure  do  we  pass  our  time,  how  much  more  lei- 
sure, liberty,  and  quietude  we  enjoy  in  an  humble 
village  than  in  a  great  city,  where  the  mind  is  con- 
tinually distracted  by  too  great  variety  ©f  objects  ! 
Here  we  live  contented  with  ourselves,  without  being 
every  morning  tormented  with  a  number  of  messages, 
by  incessant  proposals  of  some  new  scheme  to  kill  the 
day.  Here  we  are  not  necessitated  to  sacrifice  every 
domestic  care,  all  the  occupations  of  the  mind,  even 
the  sv/cet  converse  of  those  we  love,  to  endless  visits. 
The  quietude  of  rm^al  retirement  affords  us  opportu- 
nity to  follow  the  course  of  our  sentiments  and  ideas, 
to  examine  whether  they  are  just,  before  we  deter- 
mine on  our  choice  ;  in  great  cities,  on  the  contrary, 
men  act  first,  and  reflect  on  their  conduct  afterwards. 
In  a  village,  the  impressions  we  receive  are  more 
lively  and  profound  ;  whilst  in  great  cities,  time  is 
entirely  employed  to  create  amusements,  which  vanish 
the  moment  they  are  approached  ;  the  bosom  enjoys 
no  repose,  and  while  it  sighs  for  rest,  the  hope,  desire, 
ambition,  duty,  languor,  disgust,  and  contrition  which 
it  eternally  feels,  drives  it  forever  away. 

But  the  minds  of  those  who  have  retired  to  the  calm 
scenes  of  rural  life,  are  frequently  as  vacant  and  de* 
serted  as  the  hamlets  in  which  they  live  ;  and  they 
find  the  leisure,  and  happy  leisure  which  they  enjoy 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  70 

without  knowing  its  value,  tedious  and  irksome. 
There  are,  indeed,  very  few  who  have  acquired  the 
art  of  rendering  Solitude  useful  and  rational.  Men  of 
rank  proudly  fancy  that  their  honour  would  be  degrad- 
ed by  the  company  of  rustics,  and,  in  consequence  of 
this  mistaken  idea,  prefer  a  life  of  constraint,  avoid  all 
intercourse,  and  live  in  splendid  languor,  rather  than 
enjoy  a  free  and  happy  life  with  rational  and  honest 
peasants.  They  ought  to  adopt  a  conduct  directly 
the  reverse,  especially  when  they  are  discontented 
with  themselves  :  they  ought  to  mix  familiarly  in  the 
company  of  all  honest  men,  and  acquire  the  esteem  of 
every  one  by  their  kindness  and  attentions.  The  low- 
liest clown  capable  of  communicating  a  new  thought, 
or  of  raising  one  agreeable  sentiment  in  the  mind,  is, 
on  that  account,  a  very  interesting  companion  to  a 
man  who  is  at  a  loss  how  to  employ  his  time,  who 
is  tormented  by  vexation  and  ill-humour.  Those  to 
whom  time  is  a  burthen,  should  not  despise  even  the 
humblest  character  ;  and  in  the  rural  retreat,  the 
shepherd  and  the  King  should  live  on  equal  terms, 
forget  the  paltry  distinctions  of  birth,  and  all  the  pre- 
judices which  tiie  manners  of  the  world  have  raised, 
respecting  the  difference  of  their  situation.  This  con- 
duct would,  at  least,  be  more  pleasing  than  to  hear  a 
rustic  reprobating  the  venality  of  the  nobility,  only  be- 
cause the  gentlemen  of  his  neighbourhood  refuse  to 
admit  him  into  their  company. 

The  only  way,  as  it  appears  to  me,  by  which  men 
of  distinction  can  live  happy  in  the  country,  is  to  de- 
port themselves  peaceably  and  affably  to  every  one,  to 
feel  and  to  exercise  an  universal  attention  and  kind 
concern  for  the  comfort  of  others,  and  to  grant  them 
as  much  of  their  time  and  conversation  as  they  shall 
think  proper. 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  what  advantages  the  mind 
gains  m  the  Solitude  of  a  sequestered  village,  when  it 


So  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE     . 

once  begins  to  feel  disgust  at  the  tiresome  intercourses 
of  the  great  world.  Life  is  no  ^here  so  completely 
enjoyed  ;  the  happy  days  of  youth  are  no  where  more 
advantageously  employed  ;  a  rational  mind  can  no 
-where  find  greater  opportunities  of  employing  its 
time  ;  the  dangers  even  of  Solitude  itself  are  no  where 
sooner  learned,  or  more  easily  avoided.  Every  little 
village  may  be  considered  as  a  convent,  where  a  small 
society  of  persons,  distant  and  detached  from  the 
world,  are  confined  to  few  ideas  ;  where,  for  that  rea- 
son, the  passions  of  the  wicked  ferment  and  discharge 
themselves  with  greater  force  :  and  wiiere  calm  and 
honest  minds  must  associate  with  congenial  characters, 
or  retire  to  Solitude,  in  their  humble  cell. 

Small  townis  resemble  each  other  in  certain  material 
points,  and  only  drlTer  in  tlie  manner  by  which  they 
are  governed.  The  mind  is  never  subjected  to  a  more 
odious  tyranny  than  that  which  prevails  in  these  little 
republics  ;  where  not  only  the  rich  citizen  erects  him- 
self into  a  proud  master  over  his  less  wealthy  equals  ; 
but  where  the  contracted  notions  of  this  little  tyrant 
become,  if  unopposed,  the  standard  of  reason  to  all  the 
town. 

The  members  of  small  republics  care  only  for  them- 
selves, and  feel  little  anxiety  about  any  thing  that  pas- 
ses beyond  their  own  limits.  The  all-powerful  and 
imperious  Governour  considers  his  little  territory  as 
the  universe.  His  breath  alone  decides  every  question 
that  is  proposed  at  tire  Guild-Hall  ;  and  the  rest  of  his 
lime  is  wholly  occupied  in  maintaining  his  authority 
over  the  minds  of  his  fellow-citizens,  in  relating  anec- 
dotes of  families,  circulating  superstitious  tales,  talk- 
ing of  the  price  of  corn,  the  collection  of  tythes,  the 
rents  of  his  manors,  hay -harvest,  vintage-time,  or  the 
next  market.  Next  to  God,  he  is,  within  his  own  lit- 
tle town,  the  greatest  man  upon  the  face  of  the  earth. 
The  humble;  honest  citizen;  st<\nds  with  fear  and  trem- 


I 

bfin 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  .    81 


ling  in  the  presence  of  his  redoubtable  majesty  ;  for 
he  knows  that  he  is  able  to  ruin  him,  by  an  immediate 
process,  ,  The  wrath  of  an  upstart  magistrate  is  more 
terrible  than  the  thunder  of  Heaven  ;  for  this  soon 
passes  away,  but  that  remains  forever.  The  good 
judges  of  a  provincial  town  raise  their  proud  heads, 
and  look  down  with  contempt  on  the  humble  suitors  ; 
govern,  order,  censure  and  condemn,  without  regard 
to  truth  or  justice  ;  and  their  approbation  or  dislike, 
establishes  in  credit  or  consigns  to  infamy. 

The  inhabitants  of  these  towns  are,  in  general,  much 
addicted  to  LaW  :  an  attorney  is,  in  their  eyes,  the 
brightest  genius  ;  the  sacred  voice  of  Reason  is  an 
empty  sound  ;  in  vain  she  cries  aloud,  for  they  only 
believe  that  right  which  the  court  of  justice  shall  decree. 
If  one  among  them  should  absent  himself  from  their 
meetings,  and,  yielding  to  reflection,  should  think  and 
act  with  liberality  or  candour,  they  suspect  him  of 
some  intention  to  impose  on  them  ;  for,  except  in  the 
religious  order,  they  have  no  idea  of  a  studious  man  : 
and  language  will  not  furnish  any  word  expressive 
of  the  high  contempt  in  which  they  hold  a  literary 
character.  They  are  ignorant  that  reason  and  sufiev" 
stidon  are  contradictory  terms.  The  man  who  smiles 
at  their  creduhty  in  believing  that  some  misfortune  is 
impending,  because  a  hen  has  laid  her  egg  before  their 
door,  a  crow  has  croaked  upon  the  chimney-top,  or  a 
mouse  has  run  along  the  floor,  cannot,  iii  their  idea, 
possess  the  least  religion.  They  are  yet  ignorant  that 
men  are  no  longer  considered  free-thinkers,  for  hum- 
bly doubting  whether  the  frequent  spots  in  linen  an- 
nounce the  death  of  some  beloved  relation.  They 
know  not,  alas  !  that  it  is  possible  to  become  servicea- 
ble to  mankind,  without  having  ever  opened  their  lips 
in  the  town  hall  ;  and  that,  at  all  events,  they  may 
hereafter  be  noticed  by  the  really  great  and  good,  not- 
withstanding they  have  happened  to  incur  the  displeas- 


82  THE  INFLI5ENCE    OF    SOLITUDB 

lire  of  the  great  men  of  tbeir  little  town.  ^  They  are 
unconscious  that  there  are  men  of  independent  spirits 
ill  the  world,  and  that  they  are  the  only  beings  who 
would  so  tamely  endure  a  mean  submission  to  the  little 
tyrant  of  their  poor  domain.  They  do  not  feel  that  art 
honest  man  will  only  bow  before  tiie  Deity  himself  ; 
only  sulmiit  to  the  laws  of  his  country  ;  only  reverence 
superior  talents,  obey  virtue,  respect  merit,  and  smile 
at  the  vain  wrath  and  ludicrous  appearance  of  the  pro- 
vincial magistrate,  when  he  receives  him  m  anger,  with 
his  hat  upon  his  head.  They  do  not  perceive  that 
'  Slander^  the  common  scourge  of  every  country  town, 
is  only  the  vice  of  those  narrow  minds  who  visit  theii* 
neighbour  merely  to  spy  out  his  errours,  and  report, 
with  increased  malevolence,  whatever  they  can  find 
wrong,  either  in  his  house,  his  kitchen  or  his  cellar.— 
In  short,  they  who  are  ignorant  of  so  many  things, 
cannot  be  apprised,  that  they  would  soon  tire  of  the  idle 
talk  and  chatter  of  a  country  town,  that  they  would  no 
longer  amuse  themselves  in  picking  out  their  neigh- 
bour's faults,  if  they  were  once  acquainted  with  the  ad- 
vantages of  Solitude  ;  v/ith  what  a  noble  ardour  would 
they  boldly  proceed  through  the  road  of  science,  and, 
superior  to  the  meanness  of  envy,  free  from  the  dis- 
grace of  calumny,  would  steadily  pursue  the  path  of 
virtue  with  hardiness  and  vigour. 

A  determined  resolution  to  lead  a  life  of  Solitude  is 
the  only  remedy  that  can  be  adopted  in  a  situation  like 
this.  An  universal  philanthropy  for  all  the  world  will 
not  silence  the  tongue  of  envy  ;  for  even  to  such  a  con- 
duct the  world  will  always  impute  interested  motives  ; 
we  must  therefore  live  without  affording  such  oppor- 
tunities to  calumny,  and,  with  the  exception  of  those 
whom  w^e  love  and  revere,  turn  our  backs  on  the  rest 
of  mankind. 

A  virtuous  young  man,  who  perhaps  aspires  to  ad- 
vance himself  in  life,  will  not  in  the  world  find   the 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEA^I?*  8sS 

least  assistance.  In  no  one  of  the  fashionable  circl;is 
will  he  meet  with  information  or  encouragement ;  he 
yill  neither  make  himself  known  or  beloved  ;  and  Jf 
Jie  should  excite  attention,  he  will  not  be  understood  j 
they  will  consider  him  as  a  weak  ridiculous  character, 
who,  instead  of  seeking  by  adulation  to  gain  the  inter- 
est of  the  great  and  powerful,  prefers  the  pleasure  qf 
writing  or  reading  by  himself.  In  vain  has  he  been 
reared  in  the  bosom  of  a  liberal  and  enlightened  fami- 
ly ;  in  vain  has  he  received  his  education  am*ong  the 
noblest  characters  ;  in  vain  are  his  principles  estab- 
lished by  a  correspondence  with  the  best  and  moft 
learned  pirdosophers  of  the  age  ;  for  these  advantat^es 
only  afford  greater  inducement  to  oppress  his  activity 
and  stop  his  course. 

Does  the  ear  hear  or  the  heart  feel  all  this  in  a  pro- 
yincial  town,  to  which  the  refinements  of  the  metro- 
polis have  not  yet  spread  ?  What  man  will  continue 
to  patronize  him,  unless  he  becomes  dexterous  in  ^- 
fordmg  useful  accommodation  to  those  in  whose  hands 
the  w^hole  power  resides  ;  from  whom  alone  hunger 
can  receive  bread,  or  industry  procure  employment  ; 
to  whose  will  every  thing  is  submitted  ;  who  direct 
and  govern  every  movement  ;  and  by  whose  nod,  hon- 
our, fame,  esteem,  are  conferred  or  taken  away  ;  His 
mind  must  cautiously  conceal  the-4uperiority  of  its 
knowledge  ;  his  eyes  must  appear  blind  to  what  he 
gees  ;  his  heart  seem  senseless  of  wdiat  he  feels  ;  he 
jnust  constantly  listen  to  a  loose  and  frothy  conversa- 
tion, during  which,  how^ever  fatiguing  it  may  be,  he  is 
denied  the  privilege  of  yawning,  and  is  ruined  for 
ever,  if,  by  his  silence,  he  permits  the  shadow  of  dis- 
satisfaction to  appear.  He  will  be  despised  as  a  man 
of  sense  and  understanding,  notwithstanding  he  uses 
every  endeavour  to  be  thought  otherwise*^  Surround- 

*  "  A  man  of  an  enlightened  niin*f^"says  Helvetius, 
^^  %pith  vjhativer  address  he  viay  conceal  his  character^ 


^84  THE  IN|*LUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

ed  by  so  much  deformity,  both  he  and  his  friends 
might  bkish  for  want  of  that  distingmshing  eminence 
upon  the  back,  but  that  he  hears  them  gravely  talk  at 
the  Hotel  de  Ville  upon  the  important  care  of  a  stable, 
much  oftener  than  they  meet  in  London  and  Versaile^ 
to  decide  upon  the  fate  of  Europe  ;  and  must  sit  with 
as  much  attention  to  hear  them  argue  upon  the  right 
of  a  partition -wall,  as  if  he  was  placed  in  the  synod  of 
the  gods.  Perceiving,  therefore,  that  presumption, 
ignorance,  and  proud  stupidity  are  infinitely  in  higher 
estimation  than  the  noblest  exercise  of  reason  ;  that 
jnen  of  the  dullest  apprehensions  are  the  most  forward 
and  impudent  ;  that  their  vain  and  idle  boastings  a- 
lone  model  the  wit  and  direct  the  opinion  of  the  day  ; 
that  envy  fastens  itself  most  inveteratcly  upon  the  en* 
lightened  and  well-informed  ;  that  philosophy,  is  con- 
sidered  as  a  contemptible  delirium,  and  liberty  mis- 
taken for  a  spirit  of  revolt  :  perceiving  in  shoi't,  that 
it  is  impossible  to  succeed,  unless  by  means  of  the 
most  servile  complaisance  and  the  most  degrading 
submission,  what  can  save  a  sensible  and  ingenious 
youth  from  the  perils  of  such  a  scene  but  Solitude  ? 
The  poor  poet  Martial,!  on  his  return  to  Bibilis^ 
the  place  of  his  nativity,  in  S/iain,  after  having  lived 
thirty-four  years  among  the  most  learned  and  enlight* 
cned  men  of  Ronie^  found  nothing  but  a  dreary  desart, 
a  frightful  Solitude,  Unable  to  form  a  society  which 
could  afford  him  the  smallest  pleasure,  a  painful  lan^ 
guor  preyed  upon  his  mind.  Forced  to  associate  with 
persons  who  felt  no  pleasure  in  the  elegant  deHghts  of 
literature,  v/ho  possessed  no  knowledge  of  the  sciences, 

^^  can  never  so  exactly  resemble  a  fool  as  a  fool  resem^ 
*^  ties  Iibnself** 

t  "  Accedit  hhy^*  says  Martial,  in  the  preface  to  the 
Twelfth  Book  of  his  Epigrams,  "  jminicijialimn  rubigo 
*'  dentium  etjudicii  loco  livor — adversus  quod  difficile 
^J  £St  hc^bere  ^lutidic  boriumMomachum*^ 


ON   THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  S5 

he  sighed  incessantly  to  re-visit  the  beloved  metropo- 
lis where  he  had  acqifired  such  universal  fame  and  ap- 
probation ;  where  his  good  sense,  his  penetration  and 
sagacity  were  praised  ;  where  his  writings  were  pre- 
mised immortahty,  by  the  admiration  of  the  Younger 
Pliny,  to  whom  they  appeared  to  possess  equal  sharp- 
ness, wit,  and  ease  ;  whilst  on  the  contrary,  in  the 
stupid  town  of  Bibills^  his  fame  only  acquired  him  that' 
which  in  small  cities  will  ever  attend  an  excellent 
character,  envy  and  contempt. 

In  general,   however,   in  all  small  towns  the  mind 
regains  by  occasional  Solitude  that  which  it  has  lost 
by  its  commerce  with  the  world.     If  it   be  absolutely 
necessary  that  you  should  be  absurd  through  polite- 
ness, and  blind  with  your  eyes  completely  open  ;  if, 
in  the  insipid  circles  of  fashion,   you   are  obhged   to 
conceal  your  ideas  and  subdue  your  feelmgs  ;  if  you 
are  forced  to  Usten,  with  attention,  to  that  which  you 
would  ratiier  be  deaf  than  hear  ;  if  you  must  be  chain- 
ed to  the  slavery  of  the  gaming  table,   although  there 
is  no  punishment  to  you  so  severe  ;    if  every  happ7 
thouglit  must  be  strangled  '.    its  birth,  all  brilliancy 
of  expression  suppressed,  the  looks  of  love  concealecl, 
and  honest  truth  disguised  ;  if  your  whole  time  must 
be  devoted  to  please  characters  who  are  ignorant  of 
your  merit — O,  ueflect  ! — that,  in  such  a  s'tuatioii 
the  enervated  spirit  lies  buried  in  cold  obscurity,  like 
the  fire  in  theflint  untouched  by  stcc;! ;  that  your  soul 
may  languish  many  years  in  tltis  dangerous  apathy  ; 
and,  making  a  nOble  effort^  fly  from  the  fear.ts  aad  co-    ^ 
teries  of  your  corrupted  city,  retire  into  the  tranquili-      \ 
ty  of  domestic  comfort,  seek  the  silence  of  the  groves,     / 
live  in  the  society  of  your   own  heart,   and  taste,  as  ^ 
your  reward,   the  charms  of  that  inestimable  liberty^    > 
which  you  have  so  long  neglected  to  obtain. 

Freed  from  the  world,  the  veil  which  dimmed  tlic 
sight  wlil  immediately  vanish';  the  clouds  which  ob- 
H 


86         THE  INFLURNCE  OF  SOLITUDB 

sciired  the  light  of  reason  disappear  ;  the  painful  bur- 
then which  oppressed  the  soul  is  alleviated  ;  we  no  lon- 
ger wrestle  with  misfortunes,  because  we  know  how  to 
soften  them  ;  we  no  longer  murmur  agamstthe  dis-^ 
pensations  .of  Providence,  but  reflect  with  calmness 
and  serenity  on  the  advantages  we  have  derived  froni 
Solitude.  The  contented  heart  soon  acquires  the  hab- 
it of  patience  ;  every  corroding  care  flies  iVom  our 
breast  on  the  wings  of  gaiety  ;  and  on  every  side  agrees 
able  and  interesting  scenes  present  themselves  to  eur 
view  : — the  brilliant  sun,  sinking  behind  the  lofty 
mountains,  tinging  their  snow-crowned  summits  with 
gold  ;  the  feathered  choir,  hastening  to  their  mossy 
homes,  to  taste  the  sweets  of  calm  repose  ;  the  proud 
crowing  of  the  amorous  cock  ;  the  slow  march  of  the 
oxen,  retiring  fiom  their  daily  toil  ;  the  noble  activity 
of  the  generous  steed  :  surrounded  by  such  objects, 
we  receive  the  visits  of  intruders  with  an  open  air, 
and,  provided  they  do  not  too  frequently  interrupt  the 
pleasures  of  our  retreat,  we  reconcile  our  hearts  to  all 
mankind. 

But  it  is  still  more  necessary  to  save  ourselves  from 
the  dangers  of  the  metropolis,  than  from  those  of  the 
provincial  towns.  The  follies  and  vices  of  high  life 
are  much  more  contagious  than  those  of  the  simple  cit- 
izen. How  soon  the  finest  beams  of  the  imagination 
die  away  1  How  soon  does  goodness  lose  its  power, 
where  sense  and  truth  j^re  constantly  despised ;  where 
strong  and  energetic  minds  inspire  aversion  ;  and  the 
virtues  are  thrown  aside  as  an  inconvenient  and  oppres- 
sive yoke  !  How  soon  does  the  human  mind  become 
weak  and  superficial,  when  separated  from  those  by 
whom  it  might  be  enlightened  and  adorned  !  How 
suddenly  do  all  the  finer  feelings  of  the  heart,  and  the 
noblest  efforts  of  the  mind  decay?  in  the  coropany  of 


OK  THE    r»riND    AND    THE    HEART.  87 

those  ostentatious  characters  who  affect  to  disdain  all 
taste,  all  pleasure,  in  mixed  societies.* 

The  great  and  {j.v3hiona])le,  ho\yever,  are,  in  every 
country,  esteemed  the  best  company  ;  but  the  grcat^  i 
unhappily,  are  not.  in  truth,  always  the  dcsi — however  "^ 
they  may  think  proper  to  contemn  the  inferior  orders  < 
of  mankind.  Whoever  can  deduce  his  nobility  thro* 
a  coarse  of  sixteen  descents,  the  value  of  his  character 
is  invariably  fixed  ;  the  courts  of  princes  and  the  man- 
sions of  the  great  are  open  to  receive  him  ;  and  where 
merit  is  overlooked,  he  almost  universally  acquires 
precedency  over  the  man  whose  merit  is  his  only  re- 
commendation ; — but  those  qualities  which  alone  can 
render  him  valuable  as  a  man,  his  excellency  must 
learn  in  societies  where  the  povrers  of  the  mind  and 
the  virtues  of  the  heart  alone  confer  dii^nity  and  dis- 
tinction. Let  such  a  character,  if  he  should  chance  to 
find  one  solitary  moment,  v/hile  he  is  waitini^  in  the 
anti-chamber  of  a  prince,  exan^ne,  with  rational  calm- 
ness, all  those  high  prero,2:atives  of  which  he  is  so 
proud — which,  in  his  estimation,  place  him  so  far 
above  the  ordinary  level  ©f  mankind,  and  induce  him 
to  retrace  his  descent  to  the  creation  of  the  world  ;  and 
he  will  find,  that  titles  and  genealoo-ies,  without  mer- 
it, resenrible  those  air-balloons  which  rise  high  only  in 
proportion  to  their  want  of  v;eight. 

In  almost  every  country,  however,  these  titles  of  no- 
bility separate  a  certain  class  of  men  from  their  feIlo\y 
citrzenswhoare,in  genera\  better  in  formed,  more  wise, 
riifbre  virtuous,  and  not  unfrequently  possessed  of  that 
ti'lre  nobiiitvi  a  great  and  honourable  character  !  Men 
Who  have  nothing  to  depend  on  for  their  fame,  rank,  or 

*  T/ie  French  /.9,  "  Asseni:)lees  sans  oevre  melee"  :  to 
nvhich  is  subjoined  the  following  explanation  :  "  These^ 
V'  in  the  style  of  the  German  nobility^  are  assemblies  from 
**  nvhich  not  only  all  commoners  a^e  excluded^  but  all  those 
^'  ^/jo*e  nobility  even  is  liable  to  the  least  sus/izcion^'' 


88  THE    INFLUENCE  OF    SOLITUDE 

establishment  in  the  world,  but  a  line  of  ancestors,  not 
always  the  most  respectable  ;  who,  relying  solely  on 
the  merit  of  their  birth,  never  seek  to  acquire  any  otli- 
cr,  because  it  is  the  only  merit  of  which  they  have  any 
idea — have,  in  all  companies,  the  highest  precedency. 
It  is  true,  that  such  men  are  generally  acquainted  with 
the  newest  modes  of  dress  ;  conduct,  with  superior 
skill,  the  varying  fashions  ;  understand  the  bon  ton  ; 
exemplifying  the  etiquette  and  manners  of  the  day  ; 
and,  conceiving  they  Avere  formed  for  the  refinements 
of  sensuality  and  voluptuousness,  fancy  themselves, 
of  course,  endowed  with  the  most  delicate  and  sensible 
faculties. 

Languor  and  disgust,  however,  penetrate  even  into 
those  illustrious  assemblies,  from  whence  even  the  pure 
and  ancient  nobility  exclude  the  profane  vulgar.  This 
proposition  may,  perhaps,  at  first  view,  appear  a  para- 
dox. But  listen  to  tlie  manner  in  which  a  lady,  whose 
personal  qualifications  rendered  her  more  respectable 
than  even  the  splendour  of  her  birth,  explained  this 
enigma  : 

"  The  men  of  whom  our  select  parties  are  composed, 
^^  do  not  always  possess  the  same  taste  and  sentiment 
"  with  respect  to  these  assemblies  ;  but  it  is  still  more 
'*  rare  for  the  women  to  be  really  fond  of  them.  It  is, 
*'  in  general,  the  lot  of  the  great  to  possess  a  great 
"  deal  by  their  birth,  to  desire  much  more  than  they 
^'  possess,  and  to  enjoy  nothing.  In  consequence  of 
*'  this  disposition,  they  fly  to  places  of  publick  resort, 
<*  in  search  of  each  other  ;  they  meet  without  feehng 
**  the  smallest  pleasure,  and  mix  among  the  groupe 
<«  without  being  observed."  ''  What  is  it,  then,  that 
"  re-unites  them  r"  asked  I. — "  It  is  their  rank,"  she 
Implied — "  and  afterwards  custom,  lassitude,  and  the 
*^  continual  desire  of  dissipation  ;  a  desire  inseparably 
^  atUxhed  to  persons  of  our  condition." 


ON    THE    MIND    AND    THE  HEART.  £9 

Since  it  is  really  possible  to  experience  disgust  and 
liinguor  in  the  assemblies  and  other  entertainments  of 
THE  GKEAT,  let  US  examine  if  Solitude  may  not  have 
an  useful  iniluence  on  the  minds  even  of  this  class  of 
persons. 

Misled  by  false  information,  the  nobility  main- 
tain, that  all  the  pleasures  of  Solitude  center  in  a  con- 
tempt of  the  world  and  hatred  of  mankind  ;  or,  what  is 
still  Vv'orse,  that  misanthropy  is  the  only  basis  on  which 
they  are  founded.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  perfectly 
satisfied  that  their  minds  feel  much  more  spleen  and 
mortification,  on  their  return  from  a  publick  asscnibly, 
than  they  possessed  when  they  (|uitted  home — to  see 
the  world.  In  Solitude  there  can  be  no  contention  : — 
On  the  contrary,  how  many  men  there  are,  who,  fre- 
quenting publick  places  v/ith  the  vain  hope  of  enjoying; 
a  transient  pleasure,  find  all  their  addresses  refused, 
and  Oi)ly  experience  accumulated  pain  !  The  sober 
voice  of  reason  is  there  but  faintly  heard — while  the 
light,  unmeaning  tongue  of  folly  is  listened  to  with  de- 
light ;  our  intellectual  communications  afford  no  rel- 
ish ;  no  reciprocity  of  senlinient  prevails  ;  the  ap- 
pearance of  satisfaction  frequently  excites  envy,  and  a 
serenity  of  ramd  is  misconstrued  into  sadness.  The 
respective  members  of  a  numerous  assembly  are,  in 
general,  actuated  by  such  difierent  and  opposite  inter- 
ests, that  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  them  with  each 
other. — Ask  that  young  and  lovely  girl,  if,  in  a  publick 
assembly,  she  always  experienced  the  pleasures  which 
she  hoped  to  find  ?  Ask  her  if  her  heart  is  not  tortur- 
ed v/ith  vexation,  v/hen  the  rich  and  youthful  beau,  un- 
fascinated  by  her  charms,  pays  his  addresses  to  some 
rival  beauty  ?  Ask  this  rival  beauty,  what  pangs  her 
bosom  feels  when  she  perceives  herself  supplanted  by 
some  happier  hiv  ?  and  let  this  last  acknowledge  what 
kind  of  pleasure  she  receives,  if  her  admirer  pays  the 
least  attention  even  to  the  fair  female  whom  her  heart 
H    2 


90  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

adores.  Ask  that  sober  inatron  whose  bosom,  hereto- 
fore,  has  felt  these  torments,  if  she  is  not  furious,  al- 
most, wTien  higher  compliments  are  passed  on  the 
beauty  of  youth  than  on  the  wisdom  of  age  ? 

An  EngUsh  gentleman  whom  I  met  in  Germany, 
said,  in  a  manner  extremely  picturesque,  "  There  are 
'^  women  ^vho  are  eternally  jealous  that  you  do  not  pay 
^'  them  sufficient  respect,  and  who,  in  consequence, 
"  assume  an  arrogance  Vvdiich  would  be  insupportable 
^'  even  in  an  Empress  ;  while  she  might,  by  complai- 
''  sant  smiles,  not  only  render  every  one  about  her 
''  pleased  and  happy,  but  obtain  their  admiration  and 
*'  applause.  The  false  dignity  of  such  characters  ruf- 
^'  fies  their  tempers,  like  quills  upon  the  fretful  por- 
*'  cupine,  or  the  feathers  of  a  turkey  cock  in  wrath." 

The  most  dissipated  man  must  surely  view  such 
characters  with  abhorrence  and  disgust ;  and  if  he  se- 
riously reflects  how  many  there  are,  who,  careless  of 
distinguishing  between  appearances  and  reality,  feel 
\nth  equal  indifference  the  love  of  truth  and  dread  of 
falsehood  ;  how  frequently  the  company,  v/ho  compose 
what  is  styled  good  company,  are,  even  in  the  judge- 
iTient  and  opinion  of  their  sincerest  and  most  liberal 
admirers,  dazzled  by  false  brilliancy,  and  gratified  by 
the  most  triOing  information  ;  that  they  shun  Avith 
terror  the  advantages  of  reflection,  tranquility  and  so- 
litude ;  that  they  prefer  a  life  of  incessant  dissipation, 
and  seldom  consult  their  judgements  or  exercise  their 
imderstandings  ;  that  they  rather  expect  to  receive 
pleasure  from  others,  than  endeavour  to  find  it  v/ithin 
themselves  ;  conduct  themselves  by  casual  advice, 
rather  than  take  the  trouble  of  thinking  for  them- 
selves ;  that  amidst  the  most  favorable  opportunities 
to  observe  and  study  the  human  character,  they  nei- 
ther think  nor  speak  but  by  the  information  of  others  ; 
that  they  guide  themselves  by  the  prejudices  of  their 
education,  the  pride  of  their  rank,  and  the  dictates  of 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE   HEART.  9r 

fashion  ;  that  they  blindly  adopt  and  defend  the  reign- 
ing opinion  of  the  moment  ;  and  revolve  continually 
round  the  same  circle  of  defective  notions,  false  ideas, 
and  obscure  expressions  : — in  reflecting  on  these  er- 
rours,  the  most  dissipated  man  must  exclaim  with  one 
of  the  most  virtuous  and  respectable  sages  of  Germa- 
ny, "  To  be  forced  to  frequent  this  good  comfiany^  is 
*'  to  a  thinkmg  and  judicious  mind,  one  of  the  greatest 
"  torments  of  life  ;  but  when  a  wise  man  is  obliged, 
<*  from  indispensable  motives,  to  endure  this  torment, 
"  he  will  learn  by  experience  to  feel  in  a  still  higher 
"  degree,  the  inestimable  vahie  of  a  rational  Solitude." 

Men  ot  the  world,  therefore,  if  they  act  with  can- 
dour, and  in  the  sincerity  of  their  hearts,  examine  the 
merits  of  these  societies,  v/ill  soon  entertain  the  deep- 
est contempt  for  this  noisy  and  tumultuous  scene  of 
life,  learn  to  prefer  the  calm  delights  of  Solitude,  and 
feel  a  happy  inclination  growing  in  the  bosom.,  to  dis- 
play in  more  laudable  pursuits,  the  strength  and  ener- 
gy of  the  mind.  In  these  frequent  vicissitudes  of  life, 
in  this  succession  of  embarrassments,  in  this  continual 
distraction  of  the  mind,  every  intellectual  power  evapo- 
rates. 

By  this  scrupulous  attention  to  all  the  duties  of  po- 
liteness, running  incessantly  from  door  to  door  to  gain 
information  of  every  man's  health,  we  mAay,  indeed, 
pay  the  court  of  flattery  to  both  high  and  low  ;  but  we 
also  thereby  most  shamefully  sacrifice  our  lives.  The 
passion  for  play,  not  only  consumes  time,  but  ener- 
vates the  spirits  ;  v/hile  the  obligations  of  gallantry 
reduce  the  soul  to  the  most  abject  state  of  servitude. 

The  other  entertainments  of  the  great  and  gay,  are 
of  as  little  value  as  their  conversations.  The  man  on 
whom  Heaven  has  only  bestowed  the  talent  of  dancing, 
will  make  but  a  poor  figure  in  societ)^.  The  cour- 
tier, whose  conversation  entirely  consists  of  observa- 
tions, that  "  this  is  contrary  to  the  established  eti- 


92  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLIl^DE 

<«  qiiette — that  is  the  newest  fashion — these  are  the 
'•  most  elegant  ernbroideries  on  silk,  cloth,  and  velvet 
<'  — in  such  a  month  there  will  be  a  gala," — is  a 
creature  still  more  pitiful.  A  man  may,  without 
doubt,  recommend  himself  by  such  kind  of  informa- 
tion, by  that  affected  interest'with  which  he  speaks  of 
a  thousand  trifling  concerns  of  life,  by  the  approba- 
tion which  he  gives  to  every  passion,  the  flattery  with 
which  he  soothes  every  prejudice  and  encourages  eve- 
ry folly  ;  but  he  there])y  narrows  his  mind,  and  destroys 
the  faculty  of  considering  and  forming  a  just  estimate 
of  any  important  subject.  Besides,  tho;  pleasures  of 
high  life  cannot  be  enjoyed,  without  the  concurrence 
of  numbers  in  the  same  object,  at  the  same  time  :  but. 
reading  and  meditation  may  be  enjoyed  at  any  time, 
and  continued  without  the  intervention  of  another  per- 
son. It  is  true,  indeed,  that  if  a  man  of  the  world 
were  only  to  think  of  tiiis  mode  of  life,  he  would  be 
despised  as  a  misanthrope,  and  be  obliged  every  mo- 
ment to  listen  to  the  recommendation  of  entering  into 
the  round  ot  public  pleasure,  to  eifect  his  cure.  But^ 
on  the  contrary,  the  societies  of  the  world,  while  they 
add  some  little  refinement  to  the  natural  rudeness  of 
human  manners,  tend  to  increase  a  misanthropic  tem- 
per, by  furnishing  the  mind  with  a  variety  of  reasons 
to  justify  it*  In  short,  the  burthen  of  misanthropy  is 
not  greater  in  the  mind  of  him  who  flies  from  the 
pleasures  of  the  world,  than  in  him  who  seeks  them  : 
the  first  character  only  feels  a  hatred  of  vice  and  folly  ; 
while,  on  the  contrary,  the  idle  and  dissipated  man 
hates  every  person,  who  distinguishes  Irlmself,  either 
by  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  or  the  supi^riority  of  his 
vmderstanding  ;  and  by  his  endeavour  to  deride  all 
who  possess  merit,  discovers  that  he  feels  no  hope  of 
acquiring  for  himself  either  reputation  or  esteem. 

The  mind  that  seriously  contemplates  these  truths, 
and  many  others  which  these  v/ili  suggest,  must  feel 


•  N  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  V3 

tnc  necessity  of  retirinc^  occasionally  from  tlie  world  : 
at  least,  of  contining  himself  to  the  company  of  a  few- 
faithful  friends,  whose  m  it  and  talents,  when  compared 
with  those  of  the  [generality  of  men,  will  be  what  a 
STOP-w^ATCH  is,  when  compared  with  an  hour- 
glass. By  the  one  you  may  undoubtedly  discover 
the  course  of  time  ;  but  the  other,  from  the  nice  art 
and  happy  care  v/ith  which  it  is  formed,  points  out 
every  second  as  it  passes.  He,  therefore,  who  feels 
the  least  inclination  to  study  either  men  or  books,  can 
derive  pleasure  only  from  the  company  and  conversa- 
tion of  learned  and  enlightened  minds  :  and  if,  unfor- 
tunately, in  his  course  through  life,  he  should  not 
meet  with  agreeable  characters  of  this  description,  the 
charms  of  Solitude  will  recompense  his  disappoint- 
ment. 

A  very  great  character,  the  younger  Pliny,  felt  no 
satisfaction  from  any  species  of  public  entertainments, 
general  festival,  or  national  solemnity,  because  he  had 
cultivated  a  taste  for  those  pleasures  which  a  contem- 
plative mind  affords.  He  wrote  to  one  of  his  friends, 
"  I  have,  for  some  days  past,  read  and  written  in  the 
"  most  agreeable  tranquility.  You  will  ask,  How  this 
"  could  happen  in  the  middle  of  Rome  ?  I  will  satisfy 
"  you  :  It  was  during  the  celebration  of  the  games  of 
"  the  Circus,  from  the  sight  of  which  I  do  not  feel  the 
"  smallest  pleasure  :  to  my  mind,  they  neither  afford 
"  novelty  nor  variety  ;  and  consist  of  nothing  worth 
"  seeing  more  than  once.  It  is,  therefore,  inconceiv- 
"  able  to  me,  how  so  many  millions  of  people,  can 
"  press,  with  such  childish  curiosity,  merely  to  see 
*'  horses  gallop,  and  slaves  seated  on  chariots.  When 
"  I  reflect  on  the  interest,  anxiety,  and  avidity,  with 
"  which  m.en  pursue  sights  so  vain,  frivolous,  and  re- 
^'  iterated,  I  feel  a  secret  satisfaction  in  acknowledging, 
"  that  to  me  they  afford  no  amusement,  and  that  I 
f^  enjoy  a  superior  delight  in  consecrating  to  the  study 


94        THE  INFLUENCE  OF  SOLITUDE 

"  of  the  bell^S'lettres^  that  time  which  they  so  misera* 
"  bly  sacrifice  to  the  entertainments  of  the  Circus." 

But  if,  from  similar  motives,  a  man  of  the 
WORLD  were  to  steal  from  the  pleasures  of  good  com- 
fmmjj  would  he  not  by  that  means  degrade  his  charac-* 
ter  ?  Would  he  not  in  the  recess  of  Solitude  forget 
the  BON-TON,  and,  of  course,  lose  all  those  qualities, 
tvhich  externally  constitute  the  sole  difference  between 
THE  NOBLEMAN  and  the  slave  ? 

The  BON-TON,  which  consists  entirely  in  a  facility 
of  expression,  in  representing  our  ideas  in  the  most 
agreeable  manner,  prevails  in  every  country,  and  i^ 
possessed  in  general  by  all  men  of  sense  and  educa- 
tion, whatever  their  rank  and  condition  in  life  may  be. 
The  nobleman  and  the  clown,  therefore,  may  alike 
acquire  a  knovvdedge  of  the  bon-ton.  The  solitary 
character  may,  perhaps,  appear  in  society,  with  man- 
ners rather  out  of  date  ;  but  a  certain  propriety  of  be- 
haviour will  accompany  him,  which  a  man  of  true 
reflection  will  prefer,  however  foreign  his  stylo  may 
be  to  the  fashion  of  the  world.  He  may,  perhaps, 
venture  to  appear  in  company  with  a  coat,  the  colour 
of  which  was  in  fasliion  the  preceding  year  ;  perhaps,' 
in  his  modes  of  thinking,  and  manner  of  behaviour,' 
something  may  be  discernibly  offensive  to  the  eyes  of 
a  man  of  the  world,  who,  upon  those  import^^nt  sub-' 
jects,  follows  invariably  the  rei^gning  opinion  of  th6' 
day  ;  but  by  his  easy,' open,  honest  a^r,  by  that  natu- 
ral politeness  which  good  seiit5G  and' virti^<e  inspire,  a 
niaft, ,  although  Ive  be  leather  Out  of-  tllfe  fashi^Mr,  -^ill' 
never  displease  a  rational  and  reffined  (>b^ep(^er,  even' 
in  the  brilliant  circles  of  a  court,  \then  he  is^found  to' 
possess  a  decent  deraeai^^l^T,  atul'a  liiiiid  stored  with' 
useful  information.  The  most  a'ccdnlplished  courtier, 
with  all  his  studied  manners  and  agreeable  address, 
frequently  discovers  Umt  he  possesses  few  ideas,  and 
that  his  mittd  Jias  only  b^en  employed  on  low  and  tri- 


ON  THB    MIND    AND    THE    HKART.  95 

fling  objects.  Among  men  of  dissipated  minds,  wJio 
consider  grossness  of  conversation  und  ai.dacity  of 
manner,  as  the  only  criterion  oi  good  seriSe  and  pciish- 
ed  behaviour,  a  boiilaiy  man  does  not  always  meet 
with  a  favourabie  reception*  The  style  and  senti- 
ments whicii  best  please  Luch  characters,  arc  impos- 
sible to  be  learned  in  Solitude  ;  for  he  v/ho  most  con- 
tributes to  the  amusement  of  men  of  the  world,  can 
seldom  boast  any  other  merit,  than  that  of  attempting 
to  ridicule  every  thing  that  is  true,  noble,  great  and 
good  ;  or  any  other  success,  than  proving  himself  to 
be  a  foolish  characterj  without  judgement,  prirxiple, 
or  good  manners. 

IN  what  I  have  hitherto  considered  in  this  chapter, 
no  question  lias  been  raised  of  the  internal  and  imme- 
diate advantages,  which  Solitude  confers  upon  the 
mind. 

The  MIND,  without  doubt,  gains  considerable  r.d- 
vantage  by  having  been  accustomed  to  Solitude  during 
the  earliest  years  of  infancy,  if  instructed  in  a  judi- 
cious use  of  time.  The  circumstance,  also,  that  even 
in  small  towns,  the  mind  may  be  impressed  with  a 
deep  disgust  of  all  those  vices  and  irregularities  which 
are  common  to  such  places,  is  by  no  means  unimpor- 
tant ;  for  it  is  highly  advantageous,  that  without 
lessening  the  respect  whicli  is  justly  due  to  the  talents 
and  virtues  of  men  of  quality,  the  mind  should  be 
taught  to  remark  also  their  foibles  and  defects,  in  or- 
der to  detach  it  from  its  fondness  for  the  world,  and 
connect  it  more  closely  in  connection  with  itself ;  to 
make  it  feel  how  dearly  its  future  happiness  is  interest- 
ed in  exciting  every  faculty  to  acquire  those  original, 
great,  and  useful  ideas,  which  are  so  seldom  circulat- 
ed in  what  is  called  good  company. 

But  the  first  and  most  incontestible  advantage  which 
Solitude  confers,,  is,  that  it  accustoms  the  mind  to 


96  THE  INFLUEKCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

think.  The  imagination  becomes  more  lively,  the 
memory  more  faithful,  wh.ile  the  senses  remain  ini- 
distracttd,  and  no  external  object  disgusts  the  soul, 
Withdrawn  from  the  fetiguing  toils  of  the  world, 
where  a  thousand  adventitious  objects,  a  thousand  in- 
coherent ideas  dance  incessantly  before  our  eyes,  Soli- 
tude presents  one  single  object  only  to  our  view,  and 
wc  steal  ourselves  a\vay  from  every  thing  but  that  on 
which  the  heart  has  fondly  fixed  its  pursuit. 

An  author,*  whose  vrorks  I  could  read  with  pleas- 
ure, every  hour  of  my  life,  says,  *'  It  is  the  power  of 
"  attention  which,  in  a  great  measure,  distinguishe;* 
"  the  wise  and  the  great  fron^  the  vulgar  and  trifling 
*'  Iierd  of  men.  The  latter  are  accustomed  to  think, 
"  or  rather  to  dream,  without  knowing  the  subject  of 
"  their  thoughts.  In  their  unconnect-^d  rovings,  they 
'^  pursue  no  end  ;  tliey  follow  no  track.  Every  thing 
"  floats  loose  and  disjointed  on  the.  surface  of  their 
<'  minds — like  leaves  scattered  and  blown  about  on  the 
^*  face  of  the  waters." 

The  mind  easily  acquh^es  the  habit  of  thinking, 
when  it  is  withdrawn  from  that  variety  of  objects  by 
which  its  attention  is  distracted  ;  when  it  turns  from 
the  observation  of  external  objects,  and  finds  itself  in  a 
situation  where  the  course  of  daily  occurrences  is  no 
longer  subject  to  continual  change.  Idleness,  how- 
ever, would  soon  destroy  all  the  advantages  which  Sol- 
itude is  capable  of  affording  us — for  idleness  excites 
the  most  dangerous  fermentation  of  the  passions,  and 
produces,  in  the  mind  of  a  solitary  man,  a  croud  of  ex- 
travagant ideas  and  irregular  desires.      To  lead  the 

*  Dr.  Blair,  the  author  of  the  much  admired  Sermpns^ 
and  of  an  excellent  work  entitled  ''  Lectures  on  Rhetoric _ 
and  Belles  Lettres^^*  printed  in  London^  for  the  Jirst 
time^  in  the  year  1783  ;  and  indisfiensably  necessary  to  be 
studied  by  every  person  nvho  ivishes  to  speak  and  write 
*idth  accuracy  and  elegance* 


©N  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  97 

inind  to  think,  it  is  necessary,  therefore,  to  retire  from 
the  multitude,  and  to  raise  our  thoughts  above  the 
mean  consideration  of  sensual  objects.  The  mind, 
then,  easily  recollects  all  that  information  with  which 
it  has  been  enriched  by  reading,  observation,  experi- 
ence or  discourse  :  every  reflection  produces  new  ideas 
and  brings  the  purest  pleasures  to  the  soul.  We  cast 
our  eyes  on  the  scenes  we  have  passed,  and  think  on 
what  is  yet  to  come,  until  the  memory  of  the  past  and 
future  die  away  in  the  actual  enjoyment  of  the  present 
moment  :  but  to  preserve  the  powiers  of  reason,  wc 
must,  even  in  Solitude,  direct  our  attention  actively 
towards  some  noble,  indirect  end. 

It  might,  perhaps,  excite  a  smile,  were  I  to  assert, 
that  Solitude  is  the  only  school  in  which  we  can  study 
the  characters  of  men  ;  but  it  must  be  recollected^ 
that,  although  materials  are  only  to  be  amassed  in  sO' 
picty^  it  is  in  Solitude  alone  we  can  convert  them  into 
use.  The  world  is  the  great  scene  of  our  observa- 
tioBs  ;  but  to  comment  on  and  arrange  them  with  pro- 
priety, is  the  work  of  Solitude.  Under  this  view  of 
the  subject,  therefore,  I  do  not  perceive  how  it  is  pos- 
sible, to  call  those  characters  envious  and  misanthropic, 
who,  while  they'continue  m  the  world,  endeavour  to 
discover  even  the  hidden  foibles,  to  expose  all  the  la- 
tent faults  and  imperfections  of  mankind.  A  knowl- 
edge of  the  nature  of  man  is  laudable  and  necessary  ; 
and  this  knowledge  can  only  be  acquired  by  observa- 
tion. I  cannot,  therefore,  think,  that  this  study  i« 
cither  so  dangerous  or  illusory,  as  is  in  general  suppo- 
sed ;  that  it  tends  to  degrade  the  species,  to  sink  the 
human  character  by  opprobrium,  to  beget  sooner  or 
later,  sorrow  and  repentance,  to  deprive  life  of  a  vari- 
ety of  pure  and  noble  pleasures,  and  in  the  end,  t« 
destroy  all  the  faculties  of  the  soul.  I  only  perceive 
a  very  laudable  spirit  of  useful  enquiry  and.  instructive 
observation. 


9S  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

Do  I  fee!  either  envy  or  hatred  against  manlcind, 
when  I  study  the  neiture,  and  explore  the  secret  causes 
of  those  weaknesses  and  disorders  which  f^re  incident-' 
al  to  the  human  frame  ;  wheii  I  occasionally  exanl!nii 
the  subject  with  closer  inspection,  and  point  out,  for 
the  genei^al  benefit  of  mankmd  as  W'clLas  for  my  own 
satisfaction,  all  •  the  frail  and  imperfect  parts  in  the 
anatomy  of  the  body,  and  rejoice  when  I  discover  phe- 
nomena before  unknown  to  others  as  well  as  myself? 
I  do  not,  upon  these  occasions,  confine  my  knowl? 
edge  to  general  observations,  that  such  and  such 
api>earances  were  produced  by  such  and  such  disor- 
ders ;  but,  uninfluenced  by  any  sinister  consideration^, 
I  disclose,  when  the  necessity  of  the  case  calls  for 
information,  all  the  knowledge  I  possess  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  explain  every  symptom  of  the  disorder,  with 
all  its  changes  and  complications. 

But  a  line  of  demarkation  is  drawn  between  the  ob- 
servations which  we  are  permitted  to  make  upon  the 
anatomy  of  the  human  body,  and  those  which  we  as- 
sume respecting  the  philosophy  of  the  mind.  The 
physician,  it  is  said,  studies  the  disorders  of  the  body, 
to  apply,  if  possible,  a  remedy,  as  occasion  may  re? 
quire  ;  but  it  is  contended,  tliat  the  moralist  has  a 
diflcrent  end  in  view.  How  does  this  appear  ?  A  sen- 
sible and  feeling  mind  must  view  the  moral  defect  of 
his  fellow-creatures  with  the  same  regret  that  he  ob- 
serves their  physical  infirmities.  Why  do  morahsts 
shun  mankind  ?  Why  do  they  constantly  retire  fromi 
the  corruptions  of  the  world  to  the  purity  of  Solitude, 
if  it  be  not  to  avoid  the  contagion  of  vice  ?  But  there 
are  a  multiplicity  of  moral  foibles  and  defects,  which 
are  not  perceived  to  be  foibles  or  defects  in  those  places 
where  they  are  every  hour  indulged.  There  is,  withr 
out  contradiction,  a  great  pleasure  in  discovering  the 
imperfections  of  human  nature  •,  and  w^here  that  disr 
covery  may  prove  beneficial  to  mankind,   without 


ON  THF.    MIND    ANB    THE    HEART.  9!) 

doing  an  injury  to  any  individual,  to  pul^lisli  tbenm  to 
the  world,  to  point  out  their  properties,  to  place  them 
by  a  luminous  description  bctbi'e  the  eyes  of  men,  is, 
in  my  apprehension,  a  pleasure  so  far  from  beir^^  mis- 
chievous, that  I  rather  think,  and  I  trust  I  shaii  con- 
tinue to  think  so  even  to  the  hour  of  death,  it  is  the 
only  true  mean  of  discovering-  the  machinations  of  the 
devil  ;  and  destroying  the  effect  of  his  works. 

Solitude,  therefore,  is  the  school  in  which  we  must 
study  the  morav  nature  of  man  ;  in  retirement,  the 
principle  of  observation  is  awakened  ;  the  objects  to 
-which  the  attention  will  be  most  advantageously  di- 
rected, are  pointed  m\t  by  mature  reflection,  and  all 
our  remarks  guided  by  rea&on  to  their  proper  ends  ; 
while,  on  the  contrary,  courtiers, ,  and  men  of  the 
world,  take  up  their  sentiments  from  the  caprices  of 
others,  and  give  their  opinions,  without  digesting  the 
subject  on  which  they  are  formed. 

Bonnet,  in  a  very  affecting  passage  of  the  Preface 
to  his  Avork  on  the  nature  of  the  soul,  describes  the 
advantages,  which,  under  the  loss  of  sight,  he  derived 
from  Solitude.  '*  Solitude  naturally  leads  the  mind 
''  to  meditation  :  that  in  which  I  have  in  some  meas- 
"  ure  hitherto  lived,  joined  to  the  unfortunate  circum- 
<'  stances  which  have  for  some  years  ailtlictc^d  me,  and 
"  from  which  I  am  not  yet  released,  induced  me  to  ^eek 
"  in  the  exercise  of  my  mind,  those  resources  which 
"  my  distracted  state  rendered  so  necessary.  My 
'^  mind  now  affords  me  a  happy  retreat,  where  I  taste 
"  all  the  pleasures  which  have  charmed  my  afHic- 
<'  tion."  At  this  period,  the  virtuous  Bonnet  was 
almost  blind. 

An  excelmnt  man,  of  another  description,  who  de- 
voted his  time  to  the  instruction  of  youth,  Pfeffel, 
at  Colmar^  supported  himself  under  the  affliction  of  a 
total  blindness,  in  a  manner  equally  noble  and  affect- 
ing, by  a  life  less  solitary  indeed,  but  by  the  opportu- 


iOt  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

cities  of  frequent  liesure,  which  he  devoted  to  the  sin» 
dy  of  philosophy,  the  recreation  of  poetry,  and  the 
exercise  of  humanity. 

In  Japan,  there  was  formerly  an  academy  of  blind 
persons,  who,  perhaps,  were  much  more  capable  of 
discernment  than  the  members  of  some  other  acade- 
mies. These  sightless  academicians  consecrated  their 
hours  to  the  history  of  their  country,  to  poetry,  and 
to  music  ;  and  the  most  celebrated  traits  in  the  annals 
of  Japan,  were  chosen  as  the  subjects  of  their  muse, 
which  they  afterwards  adapted  to  music.  In  reflect- 
ing upon  the  irregular  lives,  and  useless  employments, 
which  a  great  number  of  solitary  persons  lead,  we 
contemplate  the  conduct  of  these  blind  Japanese  with 
the  highest  plesaure.  The  "  mind's  eye"  opened  to 
compensate  their  unhappy  fate,  in  being  deprived  of 
the  enjoyments  of  their  corporeal  organ.  Light,  life, 
and  joy  issued  from  the  shades  of  surrounding  dark- 
ness, and  blessed  them  with  tranquil  reflection  and 
salutary  employments. 

Let  us  then  devote  our  lives  to  Solitude  and  free- 
dom ;  let  us  frequently  resign  ourselves  to  the  same 
happy  tranquility  which  prevails  in  the  English  garden 
of  my  immortal  friend  M.  Hinuber,  at  Marienwer* 
dcr^  where  every  object  solicits  the  mind  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  pious,  peaceful  sentiment,  and  inspires  it 
with  the  most  elevated  conceptions  ;  or,  if  disposed 
profoundly  to  examine  the  most  awful  beauties  of 
nature,  and  thereby  prevent  the  soul  from  sinking, 
through  the  void  which  society  has  occasioned,  let  us 
roam  beneath  the  antique  piles  of  the  towering  and 
majestic  Hatsburgh** 

Solitude  induces  the  mind  to  think  ;  and  thought  is 
the  first  spring  of  human  actions  :  for  it  is  truly  ob- 

*  jin  elevated  Mountain^  front  the  smmnit  of  nvfnch 
may  be  seen^  the  rutns  of  an  antient  ca^tle^^from  'whence 
iisucd  the  celebrated  House  of  AuUria* 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  101 

served,  that  the  actions  of  men  are  nothing  more  than 
their  thoughts  brought  into  substance  and  being.  The 
mind,  therefore,  has  only  to  examine,  with  honest  im- 
partiality, the  ideas  which  it  feels  the  greatest  inclina- 
tion to  follow,  in  order  to  dive  into  and  unravel,  the 
whole  mystery  of  the  human  character  ;  and  he  who 
has  not  before  been  accustomed  to  interrogate  himself, 
will,  upon  such  an  enquiry,  often  discover  truths  the 
most  important  to  his  happiness,  but  which  the  dis- 
guises of  the  world  had  concealed  fromi  his  view. 

To  a  man  disposed  to  activity,  the  only  qualities  for 
\vhich  he  can  have  any  occasion  in  Solitude,  are  li- 
BjERTY  and  LiEsuRE.  The  instant  he  finds  himself 
alone,  all  the  faculties  of  his  soul  are  set  in  motion. 
Give  him  liberty  and  leisure,  and  he  Avill  soar  incom- 
parably higher  than  if  he  had  continued  to  drag  on  a 
slavish  and  oppressed  life  among  the  sons  of  men. 
Aut'iors  who  never  think  for  themselves,  who  only 
e4ideavour  to  recollect  the  thoughts  of  others,  and  aim 
not  at  originality,  here  compile  their  works  with  easy 
labour,  and  are  happy.  But  what  superior  pleasure 
does  the.  mind  of  an  author  feel,  in  the  advantages  of 
Solitude,  where  they  contribute  to  bring  forth  the  fruits 
of  genius  from  the  tree  of  virtue,  notwithstanding  such 
productions  may,  perhaps,  irritate  ibols,  and  confound 
the  wicked  1  The  shades  of  Solitude,  and  an  uninter- 
rupted tranquility,  moderate  the  exuberance  of  a  lively 
mind,  bring  its  diverging  rays  of  thought  to  a  single 
point,  and  give  it,  wherever  it  is  inclined  to  strike,  a 
power  which  nothing  can  resist.  A  whole  legion  of 
adversaries  cannot  inspire  the  bosom  of  such  a  charac- 
ter with  the  smallest  fear  ;  he  is  conscious  of  his 
superior  powers,  and  his  sole  desire  is,  that,  sooner 
or  later,  each  of  them  should  receive  the  justice  that 
is  due.  He  must  undoubtedly  feel  the  keenest  regret 
and  mortification  in  observing  the  dispensations  of  the 
v/orld  J  where  vice  so  frequently  is  raised  to  grandeur, 
I    2 


102  THE  iNFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

hypocrisy  so  generally  honoured  by  the  suffrages  of  a 
misguided  populace,  and  where  the  dictates  of  pov/er- 
ful  prejudice  are  obeyed  in  preference  to  the  voice  of 
truth.  Casting,  however,  his  eyes  upon  this  scene,  he 
will  somctimts  say,  '^  This  is  as  it  ought  to  be  ;"  but 
^'  this  is  not  to  be  endured  :"  and  by  a  happy  stroke  of 
satire  from  his  pen,  the  bloom  of  vice  shall  wither, 
the  arts  of  hypocrisy  be  overthrown,  and  prejudice 
extinguished. 

To  the  eye  of  the  bold  satyrist,  to  the  mind  of  the 
profound  philosopher,  and  the  feehngs  of  the  man 
of  genuis>  the  charms  of  truth  disclose  themselves 
with  superior  histre,  in  the  bovvxrs  of  Solitude.  A 
great  and  good  man,  Dr.  Blaik,  of  Edinburgh,  says, 
"^  The  great  and  the  worthy,  the  pious  and  the  virtu- 
*'  ous,  have  ever  been  addicted  to  serious  retirement. 
*'  It  is  the  characteristic  of  little  and  frivolous  minds, 
<<  to  be  wholly  occupied  with  the  vulgar  objects  of 
*^  life.  These  hll  up  their  desires,  and  supply  all  the 
*»  entertainments  which  their  coarse  apprehensions  can 
*'  relish.  But  a  more  refined  and  enlarged  mind 
*'  leaves  the  world  behind  it,  feels  a  call  ibr  liigher 
^'  pleasures,  and  seeks  them  in  retreat.  The  man  of 
"  public  spirit  has  recourse  to  it,  in  order  to  form 
*'  plans  for  general  good  ;  the  man  of  genius,  in  order 
"  to  dwell  on  his  favourite  themes  ;  the  philosopher, 
*'  to  pursue  his  discoveries  ;  the  saint,  to  improve 
*'  himself  in  grace.'* 

NuMA,  the  legislator  of  Rome,  while  he  was  only 
a  private  Sabine,  retired,  on  the  death  of  Tatia,  his 
l>eloved  wife,  into  the  forest  of  Jricia^  where  he  passed 
his  time  in  wandering  about  alone,  in  the  sacred  groves 
and  lawns,  in  the  most  retired  and  solitary  places. 
Hence  a  report  arose,  that  it  was  not  from  any  inward 
sorrow  or  mehuicholy  disposition,  that  he  avoided  hu- 
man  conveisation,  but  from  his  being  admitted,  in 
these  relrcatS;  to  a  society  more  venerable  ^d  excel* 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  103 

lent  :  the  goddess  Egeria  i  it  was  said,  had  become 
enamoured  of  his  charms,  had  married  him,  and,  by 
enlightening  his  mind,  and  storing  it  with  superior 
wisdom,  had  led  him  to  divine  felicity.  The  Druids, 
also,  who  constrintly  inhabited  caverns,  rocks,  and  the 
most  solitary  woods,  are  said  to  have  instructed  the 
nobility  of  their  nation  in  wisdom  and  eloquence,  in  all 
the  various  phsenomena  of  nature,  the  course  of  the 
stars,  the  mysteries  of  religion,  and  the  essences  of  eter- 
nity. The  high  idea  entertained  of  the  wisdom  tf  the 
DiiuiDs,  although,  like  the  story  of  NuivIA,  it  is  only  an 
agreeable  liction,  still  shews  with  what  enthusiasm  every 
age  and  nation  have  spoken  of  those  venerable  charac- 
tei*s,  who,  in  the  silence  of  woods,  and  the  tranquility  of 
Solitude,  have  devoted  their  time  to  the  study  of  wisdom. 
It  is  in  Solitude  alone  that  genius  is  excited  by  its 
own  internal  powers,  unsupported  by  the_  great, 
without  the  expectation  of  encouragement,  witliout 
even  a  prospect  of  the  most  trifling  reconipence. 
CoRREGio,  at  a  time  when  Flanders,  torn  by  civil 
discord,  was  filled  with  painters^  as  indigent  in  wealth,, 
as  they  were  rich  in  fame,  had  been  so  poorly  reward- 
ed dm'ing  his  life,  that  a  payment  of  six  pistoles  of 
German  coin,  which  he  v/as  obliged  to  travel  to  Par- 
ma to  receive,  created  in  his  mind  such  an  extrava- 
p:ance  of  joy,  as  to  prove  the  occasion  of  his  death.* 
The  secret  anprol>ation  which  judgement  will  ever  pay 
to  the  works  of  these  divine  artists,  is  the  only  recom- 
pence  they  expect  for  their  merit ;  they  paint  in  hope 
of  bemg  rewarded  by  immortal  fame. 

*  The  fiaymenl  was  made  in  quadrina,  a  sfiecica  of 
cofi/ier  coin.  The  joy  which  the  mind  of  Corrcgio  felt^  in 
being  the  bearer  of  so  large  a  quantity  of  money  to  his 
nvlfe^  firevented  him  from  ihinking^  either  of  the  length  of 
his  journey^  or  the  excefisive  heat  of  the  day.  He  walk* 
ed  twelve  miles  ;  and  his  haste  to  rcQCh  hojUGy  brought  on 
the  plmnsy^  ofivhich  he  diaU 


Ip4  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE     • 

The  practice  of  profound  meditation,  in  solitary- 
places,  frequently  raises  the  mind  above  its  natural 
tone,  warms  the  imagination,  and  gives  birth  to  sen- 
timents of  the  highest  sublimity.  The  soul  feels  the 
most  pure,  unbrotien,  permanent  and  genial  pleasures, 
of  which  it  is  capable.  In  Solitude,  to  live  and  to 
think  are  synonymous  ;  on  every  emotion,  the  mind 
darts  into  infinity  ;  and,  wrapt  in  entiiusiasm,  is  con- 
firmed in  this  freedom  of  enjoyment,  in  the  habitude 
of  thinking  on  sublime  subjects,  and  of  adopting  the 
most  heroic  pursuits.  In  a  deep  Solitude,  at  the  foot 
of  a  high  mountain  near  Pyrmont,  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  atchievements  of  the  present  age  was  hrst 
conceived.  The  King  of  Prussia,  having  visited  the 
Spa  at  Pyrmont,  to  drink  the  waters,  vv^ithdrew  from 
the  company  wdio  frequented  the  place,  and  wander- 
ed alone  upon  this  beautiful  mountain,  which  was  then 
uncultivated,  and  which,  to  this  day,  is  called  the 
Royal  Mountain.*  It  was  on  this  desert,  since  be- 
come the  seat  of  coquetry  and  dissipation,  that  the 
young  monarcii,  as  it  is  confidently  reporled,  formed 
his  project  of  the  first  war  against  Silesia. 

The  inestimable  value  of  time,  of  W'hich  the  indo- 
lent, having  no  conception,  can  form  no  estimate,  is 
much  better  learned  in  the  regularity  of  Solitude,  than 
in  the  light  and  airy  rounds  of  life.  Pie  who  employs 
himself  with  ardour,  and  is  unwilling  to  live  entirely 
in  vain,  contemplates  with  trembling  apprehension, 
the  rapid  movement  of  a  stop-watch  ;  the  true  image 
of  human  hfe,  the  most  striking  emblem  of  the  rapid 
course  of  time. 

The  time  which  we  employ  in  social  intercourse, 
when  it  improves  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  raises  the 
feelings  of  the  heart  to  a  certain  degree  of  elevation, 
extends  the  sphere  of  knowledge,  and  banishes  our 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAllT.  105 

cares,  is  far  from  being  mis-spent.  But  if  an  inter- 
course even  thus  happily  formed,  become  our  sole 
delight,  and  change  into  the  passion  of  love  ;  if  it 
transform  hours  into  minutes,  and  exclude  from  the 
mind  every  idea  except  those  which  the  object  of  af- 
fection inspires,  even  love  itself,  alas  !  will  absorb 
our  time,  and  years  will  pass  unperceived  away. 

Time  is  never  too  long  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  appears 
too  short  to  him  who,  to  tlie  extent  of  his  capacity, 
eiTYploys  it  usefully,  in  the  discharge  of  the  respective 
duties  which  his  pavticuloir  situation  calls  upon  him  ta 
perform.  To  such  a  disposition,  time,  instead  of  be- 
ing burthensome,  flies  too  hastily  away.  1  am  ac- 
quainted with  a  young  prince,  who,  by  the  assistance 
of  six  domestics,  does  not  employ  more  than  two 
minuted  in  dressing.  Of  his  carriage,  it  would  be  in- 
correct to  say  that  he  goes  in  it,  for  he  flies.  At  his 
hospitable  table,  every  course  is  finished  in  a  moment ; 
and  I  am  informed,  that  this  is  the  usual  fashion  of 
princes  ;  who  seem  disposed  to  make  every  thing  pass 
with  rapidity.  I  have,  however,  seen  the  royal  youth 
to  whom  I  allude,  exercise  the  most  brilliant  talents, 
support  the  highest  style  of  character,  attend  in  his 
own  person  to  every  application,  and  I  know  that  he 
has  afforded  satisfaction  and  delight  in  every  interview. 
I  know  that  the  affairs  of  his  domestic  establishment 
engage  his  most  scrupulous  attention  six  hours  every 
day  ;  and  that  in  every  day  of  the  year  he  employs, 
without  exception,  seven  hours  in  reading  the  best 
English,  Italian,  French,  and  German  authors.  This 
prince  knows  the  value  of  time. 

The  time  which  the  man  of  the  world  throws  away 
is  treasured  up  by  the  man  of  Solitude,  and  indeed  by 
every  one  who  wishes  to  make  his  existence  useful  ta 
himself  or  beneficial  to  mankind  ;  and  certainly  there 
is  not  in  this  world  any  species  of  enjoyment  more 
permanent.     Men  have  many  duties  to  perform  j  and, 


105  THE  INFLUENCE    07    SOLITUDS 

therefore,  he  who  wishes  to  discharge  tlicm  honoura^ 
lily,  will  vigilantly  seize  the  earliest  opponuuity,  if  he 
does  not  wish  that  any  part  of  his  time,  like  a  useless 
page,  should  be  torn  from  the  book  of  life.  We  stop 
the  course  of  time  by  employment  ;  we  prolong  the 
dvu'ation  of  Ife  by  thought,  by  wise  counsel,  and  use- 
ful actions.  Existence,  to  him  who  wishes  not  to  live 
in  vain,  is  to  thinks  and  to  act.  Our  ideas  never  flow 
more  rapidly,  more  copiously,  or  with  more  gaiety, 
than  in  those  moments  which  we  save  from  an  unplea- 
sant and  fashionable  visit. 

,  We  shall  always  employ  time  with  more  rigid 
ceconomy,  when  we  reflect  on  the  many  hours  which 
escape  contrary  to  our  inclination.  A  celebrated  En- 
glish author  says,  "  When  we  have  deducted  all  that 
"  is  absorbed  in  sleep,  sll  that  is  inevitably  appropriat- 
''  ed  to  the  demands  of  nature,  or  irresistably  engross- 
*'  ed  by  the  tyranny  of  custom  ;  all  th.nt  passes  in  re- 
"  gulating  the  superficial  decorations  of  life,  or  is 
"  given  up  in  the  reciprocations  of  civility  to  the  dis- 
"  posal  of  others  ;  all  that  is  torn  from  us  by  the  vio- 
^*  lence  of  disease,  or  stole,  imperceptibly  away  by 
"  lassitude  and  langour  ;  we  shrill  find  that  part  of  our 
"  duration  very  small  of  which  we  can  truly  call  our- 
"  selves  masters,  or  which  we  can  spend  w-holly  at 
"  our  own  choice.  Many  of  our  hours  are  lost,  in  a 
"  rotation  of  petty  cares,  in  a  constant  recurrence  of 
"  the  same  employments  ;  many  of  oiu'  provisions 
"  for  ease  or  happiness  are  alv/ays  exhausted  by  this 
''  present  day  r  and  a  great  part  of  our  existence 
"  serves  no  other  purpose  than  that  of  enabling  us  to 
"  enjoy  the  rest*'* 

Time  is  never  more  mis-spent  than  \vh\]e  we  vent 
complaints  agamst  the  want  of  it.  All  our  actions  are 
then  tinctured  by  peevishness*  The  yoke  of  Hfe  most 
certainly  feels  less  oppressive  when  we  carry  it  with 
good  humour.      But  when  the  imperious  voice  of 

/ 


OJr  THE    MllSrt)    AKD    THE    IIEARt*.  107 

Fashion  commands,  we  must,  without  a  murmnr, 
boldly  resist  her  bondage,  and  learn  to  reduce  the 
number  of  ceremonious  visits  which  employ  the  week. 
The  accomplishment  of  this  victory,  a  door  well 
bolted  against  those  frequent  visitors  whose  talk  conveys 
no  meaning;  to  our  minds,  our  mornings  passed  in 
I'^itional  employments,  and  the  evening  kept  sacred  to 
the  severest  scrutiny  into  our  daily  conduct,  will  at 
least  double  the  time  we  have  to  live*  Melancthon, 
when  any  visitor  was  announcea,  noted  down  not  ©nly 
the  hour,  but  the  very  minute  of  his  arriyal  and 
departure,  in  order  that  the  day  might  not  slip  un- 
heeded ly  away. 

The  sorrowful  lamentations  on  the  subject  of  time 
mis-spent  and  business  neglected,  no  longer  recur  to 
torture  the  mind,  when  under  the  freedom  of  a  retired 
and  rural  liie,  we  have  once  learnt  to  use  the  passing 
Jiours  with  economy.  We  have,  then,  no  more  fa- 
tiguing visitij  to  make  ;  we  are  no  longer  forced,  in 
6pite  of  our  aversion,  to  accept  of  invitations  ;  we  are 
ho  longer  mortified  by  the  aHfuence  of  rival  strangers : 
\ve  are  released  from  those  innumer?Ible  duties  which 
the  manners  of  the  world  exact,  and  which,  altogethr 
.er,  are  not  equal  to  a  single  virtue  ;  importunate 
visitors  cannot  then,  call,  and  steal  away  those  hours, 
which  we  hope  to  employ  more  usefully. 

But  it  has  also  been  observed,  with  great  truth, 
that  very  few  of  the  hours  which  we  pass  in  Solitude, 
are  distinguished  by  any  useful  or  permanent  effect  ; 
that  many  of  them  pass  lightly  away  in  dreams  and 
chimeras,  or  are  employed  in  discontented  unquiet 
reflections,  on  the  indulgence  of  dangerous  passions, 
or  of  irregular  and  criminal  desires* 

To  retire  into  Solitude,  is  not  always  a  proof  that 
the  mind  is  devoted  to  serious  thought,  or  that  it  has 
relinquished  the  amusement  of  low  and  trifling  pur? 
^uits.     Solitude;  indeed,  may  prove  mpre  dangerous 


■ 


10$  THE    INFLUENCE  OF    SOLITVPE 

than  all  the  dissipations  of  the  world.  How  frequent- 
Jy,  in  a  moment  of  the  happiest  liesure,  does  in/Llispo- 
sition  render  the  mind  incapable  of  study,  ,or  of  em- 
ploying its  powers  to  any  useful  end  !  The  most  sor- 
rowful condition  of  Solitude  is  that  of  the  hypochon- 
jdriac,  whose  mind  is  only  occupied  by  reflecting  on 
Jiis  pains.  The  most  dissipated  man  does  not  more 
xnis^pend  his  time  in  pursuing  the  fleeting  pleasures 
of  the  world,  than  a  melancholy  pining  mind,  even 
when  at  the  greatest  distance,  and  under  the  most  ab- 
solute separadon  from  the  rest  of  mankind.  Peevish- 
ness and  ill-humour  occasion  as  great  loss  of  time  as 
melancholy,  and  are  certainly  the  greatest  obstacles  to 
the  attainment  of  mental  felicity.  Melancholy  is  an 
enemy  whose  hostihties  alarm  our  fears,  and  we  there- 
fore endeavor  to  resist  its  attack  ;  but  peevishness  and 
ill-humour  take  us  by  surprize,  and  we  become  the 
victims  of  their  power,  even  before  we  think  ourselves 
jn  danger. 

Let  us,  however,  only  reflect,  that  by  peevishness 
and  ill-humour,  we  not  only  lose  a  single  day,  but 
weeks  and  months  together,  and  we  shall  endeavour 
Jo  escape  from  their  influence,  or,  at  least,  to  prevent 
their  access.  One  unpleasant  thought,  if  we  uselessr 
iy  suff'er  it  to  disquiet  and  torment  our  minds,  will 
deprive  us,  for  a  length  of  time,  of  the  capacity  to 
perform  any  thing  beyond  the  circle  of  our  daily  oc- 
cupations. We  should,  therefore,  most  anxiously 
endeavour  to  prevent  any  of  the  untoward  accidents  of 
life  from  gaining  too  great  an  influence  over  the  acti- 
vity of  our  minds.  While  the  attention  is  employed, 
the  remembrance  of  sorrow  dies  away.  Thus,  while 
the  mind  is  engaged  in  literary  composition,  if  the 
ideas  flow  with  activity  and  success,  peevishness  and 
ill-humour  disappear  in  a  moment  ;  and  we  frequently 
pbserve  the  pen  taken  up  with  the  frown  of  discontent, 
^nd  quitted  wij;h  the  smile  of  happiness  and  face  of  joy. 


O-^    THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART/  10^ 

Life  would  aiTbrd  abundant  leisure  amidst  the  great- 
<ist  multiplicity  of  affairs,  did  we  not  only  suffer  time 
to  pass  uselessly  away,  but  even  waste  it  of  our  owu 
accord.  He  who,  in  his  earliest  youth,  has  learned  thti 
art  of  devoting  every  hour  to  the  attainment  of  some 
useful  end,  has  already  made  considerable  advances  9 
and  is  quaUfied  to  manage  very  extensive  concerns.— 
But,  whether  it  proceeds  from  ill  humour  or  want  of 
activity,  we  are  always  inclined,  before  we  undertake 
the  task  we  intend  to  perform,  to  indulge  our  ease,  to 
make  conditions,  to  persuade  ourselves  that  it*is  not 
yet  proper  time  to  commence  the  work.  Indolence 
must  ever  be  caressed,  before  it  can  be  indticed  to  act. 
Let  our  first  care,  therefore,  be  to  fix  our  minds,  inva*» 
rial>ly  upon  some  object  ;  and  to  pursue  it  in  such  a 
m-inner  as  to  place  attainment  beyond  the  reach  of  ac- 
cident. Firmness  and  decision,  as  well  as  good  nature 
^nd  flexibility,  must  be  joined,  to  form  the  character 
of  a  man  of  business,  Surely  no  man  ever  knew  bet- 
ter how  to  employ  life,  than  that  monarch  of  whom  it 
was  said,  "  He  is,  like  marble,  equally  fiiin  and  pol- 
ished." 

The  pursuit  of  some  particulai*  object  is  the  best 
preventive  against  the  loss  of  time,  and  a  sort  of  coun- 
ter-poison to  the  languors  of  1  fe.  Every  man,  from, 
the  monarch  on  the  throne  to  the  labourer  in  the  cot- 
tage, should  have  a  daily  task  :  and  that  v/hich  it  is 
his  daily  duty  to  perform,  should  be  done  witliOut  pro- 
c  ras  t  i  n  at  ion  or  d  el  a  y .  E  v  e  r  y  thou  c^'h  t  and  e  v  e  r  y  ac  t  i  on, 
of  man,  therefore,  ought  to  be  directed  towards  the  le- 
gend where  it  is  written  *^  It  is  to  do  this  that  you  are 
placed  here," 

The  great  monarch,  %vho  is  an  example  to  the  age 
in  which  he  lives,  and  whose  conduct  will  become  a 
model  to  future  kii:igs,  rises  every  morniug,  in  sum- 
mer, at  four  o'clock,  and  in  winter  at  live.  The  peti- 
ti^E^of  his  subjects,  the  d'SDatches  from  £breii^npow> 


11©  TIIS  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

ers,  the  publick  documents  of  the  state,  which  were 
presented  tlie  preceding  evening  or  have  arrived  du- 
ring the  night,  are  placed  before  him,  on  a  table.  Hq 
opens  and  peruses  the  contents  of  every  paper  ;  and 
then  distributes  them  into  three  heaps.  One,  which 
requires  dispatch,  he  answers  immediately  ;  the  oth- 
er he  prepares,  by  remarks  written  in  the  margui, 
with  his  own  hand,  for  the  ministers  and  other  ofFicei's 
of  the  crown  ;  the  tJiird,  which  contains  neither  amuse- 
ment nor  busuiess,  he  throws  into  the  Rre.  The  secr 
retaries  of  state,  who  attend  in  readiness,  afterwards 
enter  to  receive  his  majesty's  commands  ;  and  the  bu- 
siness of  the  day  is  delivered,  by  the  monarch,  into  the 
liands  of  his  servants,  to  be  performed  without  delay. 
He  then  mounts  his  horse,  to  review  his  troops  ;  and 
receives,  in  the  field,  those  foreigners  who  are  desirous 
of  being  introduced  to  him.  This  scene  is  succeeded 
by  the  hospitality  of  his  table,  to  which  he  sits  dowi> 
with  gaiety  and  presence  of  mind,  and  enlivens  the 
conversation  with  sentiments  and  apothegms  which 
strike  the  mind  by  their  truth  and  wisdom.  The  sec- 
retaries re-enter  when  the  repast  is  finished,  bnnging 
with  them,  properly  and  neatly  prepared  for  the  royal 
approbation,  those  documents  of  which  they  had  rer 
ceived  the  rough  draughts  in  the  morning.  Between 
the  hours  of  four  and  five  in  the  afternoon,  the  daily 
business  of  the  nation  being  concluded,  the  monarch 
thinks  himself  at  liberty  to  repose  ;  and  this  indulr 
gence  consists  in  reading  to  himself,  or  having  read  to 
him,  the  best  compositions,  ancient  or  modern,  until 
the  hour  of  snpper  arrives.  A  sovereign  who  thus 
employs  his  hours,  may  fairly  expect  that  the  time  of 
his  ministers,  his  generals,  his  officers  of  state,  shall 
jiot  be  mis-spent. 

Many  men  will  never  exert  themselves  except  in 
matters  of  high  importance  ;  never  employ  their  tal- 
ents but  upon  great  objects  j   and  because  they  lose 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  ill 

this  opportunity,  will  clo  nothinc^.  Others  do  nothing, 
because  they  clo  not  know  how  to  distribute  their  time. 
They  might  be  able  to  perform  some  great  and  usci'ui 
action,  if  they  would  only  seize  all  the  idle  half-hours, 
and  employ  thein  to  the  attainment  of  any  end  tliey 
might  propose  ;  for  there  are  many  important  events 
which  can  be  produced  only  by  slow  degrees.  But 
those  who  ai^e  not  only  subject  to,  but  are  pleased  with 
and  solicit  continual  interruption  ;  wlio  wait  for  the  re- 
turn of  good-humour,  and  remain  idle  until  tr.ey  feci 
an  inclination  to  be  industrious,  which  can  only  be  ac- 
quired by  habit  ;  who  look,  prospectively,  for  vr<\t 
season  of  complete  leisure  wdiich  no  man  ever  fine's-— 
wall  soon  fallaciously  conclude,  that  tliey  have  neither ' 
opportunity  nor  power  to  exert  their  talents  ;  and  to 
kill  that  time  which  adds  a  burthen  to  their  lives,  w^ill 
saunter  about,  and  ride  from  place  to  place,  morning, 
noon  and  night. 

One  of  the  greatest  and  most  worthy  men  that  ever 
adorned  Swisserland,  my  deceased  friend  Iselin, 
composed  his  Efiheinerides  during  the  debates  in  the 
Senate  of  Basil*  ;  a  work  which  all  the  nobility  of 
Germany  ought  to  study,  and  m^.ny  of  them  have  read. 
Our  own  celebrated  Maeser,  who  now  resides  at  Os- 
naburg,  is  equally  honoured  and  beloved  by  his  king, 
the  prince,  and  all  our  ministers,  as  a  man  of  business 
and  a  true  patriot,  and  in  Osnaburg  by  the  nobility, 
clergy,  citizens  and  peasants,  raised  himself,  by  the 
easy  exercise  of  sportive  fancy,  to  a  pinnacle  of  fame 

*  Mr.  IsELiN  ivas  a  Register  :  while  he  was  comfiofiing 
his  Epheinerides,  the  Senators  of  Basil  conceived  he 
nvas  registering  their  debates — in  the  same  manner  as  the 
Counsellors  of  Zurich  tlionght  that  the  immortal  Gess- 
NER  tvas  collecting  their  firoceedings  ufion  his  tablets^ 
'While  he  was  in  fact  taking  the  portraits  of  those  luor^ 
thics  in  caricature* 


112  THE  INFLUENCE    OP    SOLlTUDfc 

which  lew  German  writers  have  ever  been  able  to 
reach,  t 

"  Carfie  diem^^  says  Horace  ;  and  this  recommen- 
dation will  extend,  with  equal  propriety,  to  every  hour 
of  our  lives.  The  voluptuous,  of  every  description, 
the  votaries  of  Bacchus:  and  the  sons  of  Jnacreon^  ex- 
hort us  to  drive  away  corroding  care,  to  promote  in^ 
cessant  gaiety,  to  enjoy  the  fleeting  moments  as  they 
pass  ;  and  there  is  sound  reason  in  these  precepts — > 
tho'  not  in  the  sense  in  which  they  understand  them. 
To  enjoy  the  present  moments,  they  must  not  be  con- 
sumed in  drinking  and  debauchery  ;  but  employed  in 
advancing  steadily  towards  that  end  w^e  have  proposed 
to  attain.  We  may  be  solitary,  even  amidst  the  joys 
of  publick  life.  Morning  visits  may  be  paid  at  noon  ; 
cards  of  ceremony  may  be  circulated  through  half  the 
town  ;  personal  appearances  may  be  recorded  in  every 
flishionable  assembly  ;  and  the  morning  and  the  even- 
ing still  kept  sacred  to  ourselves.  It  is  only  necessa- 
sary  to  adopt  some  regular  plan  of  life,  to  encourage  a 
fondness  for  home,  and  an  inclination  to  continue  the 
pursuit  of  our  design.  It  is  the  man  of  labour  and  ap- 
plication, alone,  who  has,  during  the  day,  afforded  be- 
nefit to  his  neighbour  or  service  to  the  state  ;  that  can, 
in  conscience,  fix  himself,  a  whole  night,  at  the  gam- 
ing table,  without  hearing  or  saying  one  interesting 
Avord,  and  without,  on  his  return  home,  being  able  to 
recollect  any  other  expression  than  ^'  I  have  won  or 
lost  so  much  money." 

The  highest  advantage  which  we  derive  from  time, 
and  the  sole  end  to  which  I  would  direct  these  reflec- 
tions, Petrarch  has  already  taught  us.     "  If,"  says 

t  M,  Maeser  dictated  to  his  daughter^  during  the  tx-^ 
hibitions  of  the  theatre^  almost  the  nvhole  of  his  fugitive 
pieces^  ivhich  have  so  justly  given  immortality  to  liis 
fame* 


ON   THE    MIND    AND    THE  HEART.  113 

Petrarch,  '^^  you  feel  any  inclination  to  seiTC  God, 
*^  in  which  consist  the  highest  felicities  of  ournature  ; 
"  if  you  are  disposed  to  elevate  the  mind  by  the  study 
*'  of  letters,  which,  next  to  religion,  procures  us  the 
^'  truest  pleasures  ;  if,  by  your  sentiments  and  wri- 
^'  tings,  you  are  anxious  to  leave  behind  you  something 
"  that  will  memorise  your  names  with  posterity—. 
'»  stop  the  rapid  progress  of  your  days,  and  prolong 
<•  the  course  of  this  most  uncertain  life  ;  if  you  feel 
"  the  least  inclination  to  acquire  these  advantages, 
''  fly,  ah  !  fly,  I  beseech  you,  from  the  enjoyments  of 
*'  the  workh  and  puss  the  few  remaining  days  you  have 
''  to  live  in  Solitude. " 

It  is  not  in  the  power  of  every  man  to  follow  this 
advice  ;  but  there  are  many  who  are,  in  a  greater  or 
less  degree,  m^Asters  of  their  time,  and  v/ho  may,  as 
t'leir  inclinations  lead  them,  either  preserve  or  relin- 
Cfiiish  their  connections  with  the  v/orld.  It  is,  there- 
fore, for  tlie  benefit  of  such  characters,  that  I  shall 
continue  to  consider  the  advantages  which  Solitude  af- 
fords. 

Solitude  inspires  the  mind  with  exquisite  taste,  ex- 
tends the  boundaries  of  thought,  enlarges  the  sphere 
of  action,  and  dispenses  a  superior  kind  of  pleasure, 
which  neither  time  nor  accident  can  remove. 

Taste  is  refined,  in  Solitude,  by  a  more  careful  se- 
lection of  those  beauties  which  become  the  subjects  of 
our  contemplation.  It  depends  entirely  upon  ourselves 
to  make  choice  of  those  objects  from  which  we  may 
derive  the  purest  pleasure  ;  to  read  those  writings,  to 
encourage  those  reflections  which  most  tend  to  pu- 
rify the  mind,  and  store  it  with  the  richest  variety  of 
images.  Reposing  with  security  upon  the  established 
wisdom  of  others,  rather  than  upon  our  own  judge- 
ment, the  mind  escapes  the  contagion  of  those  false 
notions  which  are  so  easily  adopted  by  the  world.—* 
To  be  obliged;  continually,  to  tell  one's-selfj  "  This  is 
K    2 


114  THE  INFLUENCE   OF    SOLITUDE 

the  sentiment  which  you  must  entertain,"  is  insupport- 
ble.  Why,  alas  !  will  not  men  strive,  by  free  choice 
and  reflection,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  subject, 
to  gain  opinions  of  their  own,  rather  than  submit  to 
be  guided  by  the  arbitrary  dictates  of  others  ?  Of 
what  importance  is  it  to  me,  that  the  beau-monde  ap- 
proves of  a  writing  that  pleases  me  ?  In  what  do  you 
instruct  me,  ye  cold  and  miserable  critics  ?  Does  your 
judgement  make  me  feel  thatAvhich  is  truly  fine,  no- 
ble, good  and  excellent,  with  higher  relish  ?  How  can 
I  subaiit  to  the  dcfcision  of  that  partied  tribunal  v.'hich 
decides  upon  the  merit  of  works  by  arbitrary  agree- 
ments, examines  all  irregularly,  and  generally  deter- 
mines wrong  ?  What  opinion  must  I  entertain  of 
tlie  .multitude,  who  only  repeat  what  you  direct  them 
10  say,  and  who  speak  your  sentiments  through  the 
channel  of  the  publick  ?  What  reliance  can  be  placed 
in  the  rectitude  of  your  judgements,  when,  in  review* 
ing  the  most  detestable  publications,  you  can  pro- 
nounce that  the  whole  is  excellent,  because  a  certain 
person,  of  literary  renown,  upon  whose  wofd  you 
would  condem.n  the  chastest  work,  has  thought  proper 
to  praise  it  ? 

It  is  impossible  ever  to  discover  or  see  the  enchant- 
ir>g  beauties  of  truth,  vmless  we  entirely  relinquish  the 
society  of  this  class  of  readers  ;  for  they  infect  the 
judgement  before  we  suspect  them.  But  enligjitened 
minds,  whose  correct  taste  immediately  distinguishes 
])cautics  from  defects  ;  who  become  enthusiastic  and 
impassioned  admirers  of  all  that  is  excellent,  while 
they  feel  a  natural  disgust  at  that  which  is  bad  ;  who 
enjoy  the  works  of  true  genius,  and  suifer  the  severest 
])ain  from  dullness,  absurdity  and  bombast — willingly 
retire  fi  <jm  the  crowd,  and  alone,  or  with  a  few  cho- 
.-'cn  fiiends,  resign  tliemselves  to  the  pleasures  of  a 
tranquil  intercourse  with  all  that  antiquity  or  modern 
ages  have  produced  of  distinguished  excellence. 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAHT.  il5 

It  is  then  we  learn  how  much  we  are  capable  of  con- 
tributing to  the  perfection  and  happiness  of  our  na- 
ture, and  experience  the  most  agreeable  sensations  of 
our  existence  ;  it  is  then  that  vve  congratulate  our- 
selves on  the  possession  of  our  mental  powej's  in  the 
subjects  on  which  they  are  employed  ;  it  is  then  we 
feel,  that  with  such  characters  we  exert  our  fiiculties 
to  the  advantage  of  ourselves,  to  the  plea?.ure  of  our 
friends,  and  perhaps,  also,  at  some  future  period,  to  the 
happiness  of  sympathetic  minds,  to  whom  we  are  yet 
unknown,  and  to  whom,  indeed,  the  pen  of  truth  caii 
never  be  displeasing. 

Solitude  gives  new  vigour  to  activity  of  the  mind^ 
multiplies  the  number  of  its  ideas,  and  extends  its 
sources  of  information,  by  rendering  our  curiosity 
more  lively,  our  application  more  indefatigeible,  our 
perseverance  more  firm. 

A  man  who  was  well  acquainted  with  all  these  ad- 
^^antages,  has  said,  that  "  by  silent,  solitary  reflection, 
^  we  exercise  and  strengthen  all  the  powers  of  the 
'  mind  ;  the  many  obscurities  which  render  it  diffl- 
*  cult  to  pursue  our  path,  disperse  and  retire  ;  and 
'  we  return  to  a  busy,  social  life,  with  more  cheerful- 
'  ness  and  content.  The  sphere  of  our  understand- 
'  ing  becomes  enlarged  by  reflection  ;  we  have  learn* 
'  ed  to  survey  more  objects,  and  to  bind  them,  intel- 
'  lectually,  together  ;  we  carry  a  clearer  sight,  a  just- 
'  er  judgement,  and  firmer  principles,  with  us,  into 
^  the  world  in  which  we  are  to  live  and  act  ;  and  are 
'  then  more  able,  even  in  the  midst  of  all  its  distrac- 
'  tions,  to  preserve  our  attention,  to  think  with  accu- 
'  racy,  to  determine  with  judgement,  in  a  degree 
'  proportioned  to  the  preparations  we  have  made  in 
'  the  hour  of  retirement.*' 

The  curiosity  of  a  rational  mind  is,  in  the  ordinary 
ransactions  of  the  world,  very  soon  satisfied  ;  but  in 
solitude  it  augments  daily.    The  human  mind,  in  its 


116  THE  INFLUENCE   OT    SOLITUDE 

researches  after  truth,  cannot  immediate! v  discover 
the  end  it  wishes  to  attain  :  it  links  proof  to  observa- 
tion, joins  experience  to  coiiclusion,  and  by  one  truth 
d'^velopes  another.  The  astronomers  who  first  obser- 
ved the  course  of  the  planets,  did  not  foresee  the  ex- 
tensive influence  which  their  discoveries  would  one 
day  produce  upon  the  happiness  and  interests  of  man- 
kind. Delighted  to  view  the  state  of  the  firmament 
during  the  progress  of  the  night,  and  perceiving  that 
the  stars  changed  their  situations,  their  curiosity  in- 
duced them  to  explore  the  causes  of  that  which  excited 
their  admiration,  and  determined  them  to  pursue  the 
road  of  science.  It  is  thus,  by  silent  activity-?  that  the 
soul  augments  it  powers  ;  and  a  contemplative  mind 
will  always  gain  advantage  in  proportion  as  it  reficcts 
upon  the  immediate  causes,  the  effects,  and  the  possi- 
ble consequences,  of  an  established  truth. 

The  mind,  when  the  imaigination  is  regulated  by  the 
level  of  reason,  proceeds  with  much  less  rapidity  ;  but 
it  never  takes  the  same  steps  aftervrards  that  it  did 
before.  Men  v/ho  permit  themselves  to  be  drawn  aside 
by  the  charms  of  fancy,  construct  worlds,  which  im- 
mediately burst  like  airy  bubbles  of  soap  and  water  ; 
while  rational  m-inds  examine  the  materials  of  their 
projected  fabric,  and  use  those  only  which  are  good. 
"  The  great  art  to  learn  much,"  says  Locke,  "  is  ta 
vmdertake  a  little  at  a  time." 

Dr.  Johnson,  the  celebrated  English  writer,  has^ 
very  happily  said,  "  All  the  performances  of  human 
"  art,  at  which  we  look  with  praise  or  wonder,  are 
^'  instances  of  the  resistless  force  of  perseverance  ;  it 
*'  it  by  this,  that  the  quarry  becomes  a  pyramid,  and 
"  that  distant  countries  are  united  by  canals.  If  a 
"  man  was  to  compare  the  effect  of  a  single  stroke  of 
*^  the  pick-axe,  or  of  one  impression  of  a  spade,  with 
'^  the  general  design  and  last  result,  he  would  be  over- 
^  whelmed  by  the  sense  of  their  disproportion  ^  yet 


O^  THE    MIND    AND    TK£    HEART.  117 

*<  those  petty  operations,  incessantly  continued,  in  time 
*'  surmount  the  greatest  difficuhit^s  ;  and  mountains 
<'  are  levelled,  and  oceans  bounded,  by  the  slender 
"  force  of  human  beings.  It  is  therefore  of  the  ut- 
^'  most  importance  that  those  who  have  any  intenticm 
"  of  deviating  from  the  beaten  roads  of  life,  and  ac- 
"  quiring  a  reputation  superior  to  names  hourly  swept 
"  away  by  time  among  the  refuse  of  fame,  should  add 
"  to  their  reason,  and  their  spirit,  the  power  of  per- 
"  sisting  in  their  purposes  ;  acquire  the  habit  of  van- 
**  quishmg  obstinate  resistance  by  obstinate  attacks.'* 

Activity  animates  the  most  savage  desart,  converts 
the  dreary  cell  into  a  lively  world,  gives  immortal  glo- 
ry to  the  genius  who  meditates  in  the  silence  of  retire- 
ment, and  crowns  the  ingenious  artist  who  produces 
his  chef'd^ceuvres  from  a  solitary  work-shop  with  un- 
fading fame.  The  mind,  in  proportion  to  tlie  difficul- 
ties it  meets  with,  and  the  resistance  it  has  to  sur- 
mount, exercises  its  powers  with  higher  pleasure,  and 
raises  its  efforts  with  greater  .zeal,  to  attain  success,-— 
Apelles  being  reproached  with  the  small  number  of 
pictures  he  had  paint^ed,  and  the  incessant  attention 
with  which  he  re-touched  his  works,  contented  him- 
self with  making  this  reply  :  "  I  paint  for  fiostrrity,** 

To  recommend  monastic  notions  of  Solitude,  and 
the  sterile  tranquility  of  the  cloister,  to  men  who,  after 
a  serious  preparation  in  retirement,  and  an  assiduous 
intercourse  with  their  own  minds,  are  capable  of  per- 
forming great  and  good  actions  in  the  world,  would  be 
extravagant  and  absurd.  Princes  cannot  live  tlie  life 
of  monks  ;  ministers  of  state  are  no  longer  sought  in 
the  silence  of  the  convent  ;  generals  are  no  longer 
chosen  from  the  members  of  the  church.  Petrarch 
therefore  aptly  says,  ''  I  condemn  the  Solitude  which 
<^  encourages  sloth,  and  the  leisure  which  is  idly  and 
"  unprolitably  employed  :  Solitude  must  be  rendered 
"  useful  to  many  purposes  of  life.     A  man  who  is  in- 


Us  THE  INFLUENC£    OF    SOLITUDE 

"  dolent)  slotliful,  and  detached  from  the  \Yorld,  must 
"  inevitably  become  melancholy  and  miserable.  Such 
"  a  character  can  never  do  any  good  -;  he  cannot  resign 
"  himself  to  any  useful  science,  or  pursue  any  object 
"  worthy  the  attentirm  of  a  great  man." 

He  may,  however,  procure  to  himself  the  pleasures 
of  the  mind  ;  those  precious  pleasures,  so  easily  ac- 
quired, so  open  to  the  access  of  all  mankind  :  for  it  is 
only  in  those  pleasures  which  are  sold  for  money, 
wherein  the  mind  has  no  participation,  and  which  only 
tend  to  afford  a  momentary  relief  to  lani^our,  or  to 
drown  the  senses  in  forgetful n ess,  that  the  GRt:AT 
claim  an  exclusive  right  ;  but  in  those  delights  which 
the  mind  is  capable  of  procurin:^  for  its  peculiar  en- 
joyment, they  have  no  privilege  ;  d-jiights,  which  are 
reared  by  our  own  industry,  by  sert<  us  reiSection,  pro- 
found thought,  deep  research,  and  v/Vich  produce  the 
more  hidden  fruits  of  knowledge,  the  love  of  truth,  and 
a  contemplation  of  the  perfection  of  oui  moral  and 
physical  nature. 

A  preacher  from  Swisserland,  has,  ii>  a  German 
pulpit,  said,  "  The  streams  of  mental  pleasures,  those 
"  which,  of  course,  all  men  of  whatever  condition  may 
"  equally  partake,  flow  from  one  to  the  other  :  the 
"  stream  of  which  we  have  most  frequently  tasted,  lo- 
<'  ses  neither  its  flavour  nor  its  virtue,  but  frequently 
''  acquires  new  charms,  and  conveys  additional  plea- 
"  sure  the  oftener  it  is  tasted.  The  subjects  of  these 
"  pleasures  are  as  unbounded  as  the  reign  of  truth,  as 
"  extensive  as  the  world,  as  unlimited  as  the  divine 
*'  perfection.  The  incorporeal  pleasures,  therefore, 
*'  are  much  more  durable  than  all  others.  They 
"  neither  disappear  with  thi  light  of  the  day,  nor 
^'  change  with  the  external  forms  of  things,  nor  de- 
*'  scend  with  our  bodies  to  the  tomb  ;  but  continue 
"  while  we  exist  :  accompany  us  under  all  the  vicissi- 
"  tudes,  not  only  of  our  mortal  lifr,  but  of  that  wM:li 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  119 

f^  16  to  come  ;  secure  us  in  the  darkness  of  the  night ; 
^'  and  compensate  for  all  the  miseries  we  are  doonucl 
«  to  suffer." 

Men  of  exalted  minds  therefore  have  always,  amidst 
the  bustle  of  the  gay  world,  and  even  in  the  brilliant 
career  of  heroism,  preserved  a  taste  for  mental  plea- 
sures. Engaged  in  aiTairs  of  the  most  important  conr 
sequence,  notwithstanding  the  variety  of  objects  by 
which  their  attention  w^as  distracted,  they  ^vere  still 
faithful  to  THE  MUSES,  and  fondly  devoted  their  minds 
to  the  perusal  of  the  works  of  genius.  They  gave  no 
credit  \o  the  idea,  that  reading  and  kriowledge  are  use- 
less to  great  men  ;  and  frequently  .condescended, 
without  a  blush,  to  become  writers  themselves.  When 
Philip, king  of  MacedonAnvitQc]  Djonisius  the  Youn^ 
ger  to  dine  with  him  at  Corinth,  he  felt  an  inclination 
10  deride  the  fcither  of  his  royal  guest,  because  he  had 
blended  the  characters  of  sovereign  and  poet,  and  had 
employed  his  leisure  in  writing  odes  and  tragedies.-—? 
"  How  could  the  king  find  leisure,"  said  Philip,  «  to 
"  write  these  trifles  ?"  "  In  those  hours,"  answered 
Dionysius,  "  which  you  and  I  spend  in  drunkenness 
"  and  debauchery." 

Alexander  was  remarkably  fond  of  reading. — 
Whilst  he  was  filling  the  world  with  the  flmie  of  his 
victories,  marking  his  progress  by  blood  and  slaughter, 
dragging  captive  monarchs  at  his  charriot  wheels, 
marching  over  smoking  towns  and  ravaged  provinces, 
and  led  on  with  increasing  ardour  to  new  victories,  he 
felt  many  intervals  of  time  hang  heavy  on  his  hands, 
and  lamented  that  Asia  afforded  him  no  books  to 
amuse  his  leisure.  He  wrote  therefore  to  Harpalus, 
to  send  him  the  works  of  Fhilistusy  the  tragedies  oJT 
Eurijiides,  Sophocles,  Eschijlus,  and  the  dithyrambics 
of  Thalestes, 

Brutus,  the  avenger  of  the  violated  liberty  of 
JRoME,  while  serving  in  the  army  under  Pompey,  eni- 


■ 


120  THE  INFLUENCE    Or    SOLITUDE 

ployed  among  books  all  the  moments  he  could  spare 
t'r^m  the  duties  of  liis  station.  The  hours  which  were 
allotted  to  the  repose  of  the  army,  he  devoted  to  revid- 
iug  and  writing ;  and  he  was  even  thus  employed  in  the 
evening  preceding  the  battle  of  Ph  axis  alia  ;  the  ctl? 
eUrated  battle  by  which  the  empire  of  tLe  universe  was 
decided.  Ths  army  was  encamped  in  a  marshy  plain  ; 
it  was  the  middle  of  summer,  and  the  heat  of  the  sear 
son  excessive.  The  servants  who  bore  the  tent  of 
Brutus  did  not  arrive  until  a  late  hour.  Being  much 
fatigued,  he  bathed,  emd  towards  noon  caused  his  body 
to  bj  rubbed  with  oil,  while  he  waited  their  arrival- 
Taking  some  little  refreshment,  he  retired  to  his  tewt, 
aud  while  others  wei'e  locked  in  the  arms  of  sleep,  ov 
contemplating  the  probable  event  of  the  ensuing  day, 
he  employed  himself,  during  ihe  night,  in  drawing  a 
plan  from  the  History  of  Folyhius, 

Cicero,  who  was  more  sensible  af  mental  pleasures 
than  any  other  character,  says,  in  his  oration  for  the 
poet  Jrchias^  "  Why  should  I  be  asliamed  to  acknowl- 
"  edge  pleasures  like  the§e,  since,  for  so  many  years, 
"  ^he  enjoyment  of  them  has  never  prevented  me 
"  from  relieving  the  wants  of  others,  or  deprived  me 
"  of  the  courage  to  attack  vice  and  defend  virtue.-r- 
«  -Who  can  justly  blame,  who  can  censure  me,  if, 
"  while  others  are  pursuing  the  views  of  interest,  ga- 
^'  zing  at  festal  shows  and  idle  ceremonies,  exploring 
"  new  pleasures,  engaged  in  midnight  revels,  in  the 
"  distraction  of  gaming,  the  madness  of  intemperance, 
«  neither  reposing  the  body  nor  recreating  the  mind, 
"  I  spend  the  recollective  hours  in  a  pleasing  review 
"  of  my  past  hfe,  in  dedicating  my  time  to  learning 
<^  and  the  muses." 

Pliny,  the  Elder,  full  of  the  same  spirit,  devoted 
every  moment  of  his  life  to  learning.  Some  person  al? 
ways  read  to  him  during  his  meals  ;  and  he  never  tra- 
velled without  a  book  ar^d  a  portable  riding  desk  by  l;i3 


ON  TH£   MINB    ANB    THE   HEAKT.  121 

side.  He  made  extracts  from  erery  work  he  read ; 
and,  scarcely  conceiving  himself  alone  while  his  facul- 
ties were  absorbed  in  sleep,  he  endeavoured,  by  this 
diligence,  to  double  the  duration  of  his  existence. 

Pliny,  the  Younger,  read  wherever  it  was  possible, 
whether  riding,  walking,  sitting,  or  whenever  the  sub- 
ject of  his  employment  afforded  him  the  opportunity  ; 
for  he  made  it,  indeed,  an  invariable  rule  to  prefer  the 
discharge  of  his  duty  to  those  occupations  which  he 
followed  only  as  an  amusement.  It  was  this  disposi- 
tion which  so  strongly  inclined  him  to  Solitude  and 
retirement.  "  Shall  I  never  break,"  said  he,  "  the 
"  chains  by  which  I  am  withheld  ?  Arc  they  indisso- 
^<  luble  ?     No  !  I  dare  not  hope  for  such  an  event  ! 

^'  Every  day  adds  new  torments  to  the  former 

•'  Scarcely  is  one  duty  performed,  than  another  is  im- 
*'  posed  ;  and  the  chain  of  business  becomes  every 
**  day  more  heavy  qnd  oppressive^" 

Petrarch  was  always  gloomy  and  low-spirited,  ex- 
cept while  he  was  reading  or  writing  ;  especially  whea 
he  was  prevented  from  resi tuning  himself,  in  Solitude, 
to  the  fine  phrenzies  of  poetry,  on  the  banks  of  some 
inspiring  stream,  amoBg  the  romantic  rocks  and 
^mountains,  or  the  flower-enamelled  vallies  of  the  Alps. 
To  aveid  the  loss  of  time,  during  his  travels,  he  con- 
stantly wrote  at  every  inn  where  he  stopped  for  re- 
freshments One  of  his  friends,  the  Bishop  of  Cavil- 
Ion,  being  alarmed,  lest  the  intense  application  with 
which  he  read  and  wrote,  when  at  V^aucluse,  should 
entirely  destroy  his  health,  which  was  already  greatly 
impaired,  desired  him,  one  day,  to  give  him  the  key  of 
his  Hbrary.  Petrarch  gave  it  to  him,  immediately, 
without  suspecting  the  motive  of  his  request  :  when 
the  good  Bishop,  instantly  locking  up  his  books  and 
writing  desk,  said,  "  I  interdict  you  from  pen,  ink,  pa- 
per and  books,  for  the  space  of  ten  clays."  Petrarch 
felt  the  severity  of  the  sentence,  but  conquered  the  vio- 

L 


122  THE  INFLUEKCE    OF    SOLITUBE 

lence  of  his  feelings,  and  obeyed.  The  first  day  ap- 
peared longer  to  him  than  a  year  ;  ©n  the  second  he 
was  afflicted  with  a  head-ache,  from  morning  till  night 
—and  on  the  third,  he  was  attacked  by  a  fever.  The 
Bishop,  afl'ected  by  the  condition  to  which  he  was  re- 
duced, returned  him  the  key,  and  restored  him  to 
health. 

The  late  Earl  of  Chatham,  as  I  have  been  informed, 
by  his  ovvn  nephew,  (my  intimate  friend)  was,  in  his 
youth,  cornet  in  a  regiment  of  dragoons,  which  was 
quai'tered  in  a  small  town,  in  England.  He  discharged 
his  duty,  upon  all  occasions,  with  scrupulous  attention 
— but  the  moment  his  duty  was  performed,  he  retired 
to  Solitude  during  the  remainder  of  the  day,  and  em- 
ployed his  hours,  alone,  without  visiting  or  being  visit- 
ed, in  reading  the  most  celebrated  authors  of  Rome 
and  Athens.  Attacked,  at  an  early  period  of  his  life, 
by  an  hereditary  gout,  which  he  ^vished  to  eradicate, 
his  mode  of  living  was  extremely  frugal  and  abstemi- 
ous. The  feeble  state  of  his  health,  perhaps,  made 
him  fond  of  retirement  ;  but  it  certamly  was  in  Soli- 
tude that  he  laid  the  foundation  of  that  glory  which  he 
afterwards  acquired. 

Charcters  like  this,  it  will,  perhaps,  be  said,  are  not 
now  to  be  found  ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  both  the  assertion 
and  the  idea  would  be  erroneous.  Was  the  Earl  of 
Chatham  inferiour,  in  greatness,  to  a  Roman  ?  and  will 
his  son  (Mr.  Pitt)  who,  while  yet  a  youth,  thundered 
forth  his  eloquence,  in  the  senate,  like  Demosthenes, 
and,  like  Pericles,  captivated  the  hearts  of  all  who 
heard  him  ;  who  now,  when  little  more  than  thirty 
years  of  age,  makes  himself  feared'  and  respected  as 
the  prime  minister  of  the  British  empire— ever  think 
or  act,  under  any  circumstances,  with  less  greatness 
than  his  illustrious  father  ?  What  men  have  once 
been,  they  may  always  be.  Europe  now  produces 
men  $is  great  as  ever  swayed  the  sceptre  or  coxnmand 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  133 

€cl  the  armies  of  Greece  or  Rome.  Wisdom  and  vir- 
tue, where  an  inclination  to  attain  them  prevails,  may 
increase  as  much  in  publick  as  in  private  life,  as  well 
in  the  palaces  of  kings  as  under  the  roof  of  the  hum- 
ble cottage/  Wise  Solitude  is  no  where  more  respec- 
table than  in  the  palace.  The  statesman  may  there,  in 
profound  tranquility,  plan  the  most  important  enter- 
prises, and  live  witli  calmness  and  co.ilent  ;  provided 
he  discliarges  his  duty  without  ostentation,  and  avoids 
the  contagion  of  weak  and  frivolous  minds.  Instruc- 
tion may  be  acquired  at  all  times',  and  in  every. place  ; 
and  althoiig'h  it  may  be  difficult  to  return  from  th« 
path  which  a  man  has  once  trod,  and  commence  a  new 
career,  he  may  wisely  employ  the  remainder  of  his 
days  ;  unless,  while  he  has  the  power  to  display  the 
steady  light  of  truth,  he  contents  himself  with  emit- 
ting the  occasional  twinkling  of  the  glow-worm. 

Solitude  will,  ultimately,  render  the  mind  superior 
to  all  the  vicissitudes  and  miseries  of  life.  The  man 
to  whose  bosom  neither  riches  nor  pleasure,  nor  gran- 
deur, can  convey  felicity,  may,  with  abook  in  his  hand, 
learn  to  forget  cares,  under  the  friendly  shade  of  eve-* 
ry  tree.  He  tastes  the  pleasures  which  Solitude  af- 
•  fords  v/ith  exquisite  delight  :  pleasures,  lively  and  va- 
ried, pure  and  forever  new.  At  his  desk,  he  feels  his 
mind  exert  itself  with  fresh  vigour  ;  the  exercise  of 
his  faculties  then  affords  him  the  most  pleasing  sensa- 
tion of  his  existence,  and  inspires  an  idea  of  the  char- 
acter which  he  nmay,  in  future,  if  he  pleases,  attain. — ^ 
If  his  views  are  great,  and  his  inclinations  pure,  the 
pleasures  of  Solitude  become  proportionably  great  and 
good  ;  he  fears,  in  a  greater  degree,  the  pernicious 
poison  of  flattery,  and  rejects,  with  higher  disdain,  the 
pursuit  of  idle  and  frivolous  amusements. 

He  who  shuns  the  societal- of  men,  in  order  to  ob- 
tain their  love  and  esteem  ;  who  rises,  with  the  sun, 
to  hold  converse  with  the  dead,  is,  without  doubt,  not 


I 


124/  THE  INFLUENCE   OF   SOLITUDE 

booted  at  the  break  of  day.  The  horses  of  such  a  man 
repose  quietly  in  their  stalls,  and  his  doors  remain 
carefully  bolted  against  the  intrusion  of  idle  loungers. 
He  studies,  however,  both  men  and  manners  ;  never 
loses  sight  of  the  transactions  of  the  world  ;  casts  a 
retrospective  eye  upon  the  knowledge  which  his  study 
and  experience  have  gained  ;  and  every  observation 
■which  he  makes  on  life,  confirms  a  truth  or  refutes  a 
prejudice  :  for  in  Solitude,  the  whole  system  of  life  is 
imveiled,  stripped  of  its  false  glare,  and  represented 
in  its  natural  state  to  our  view  :  truth,  which  in  the 
common  intercourse  of  men  always  lies  concealed, 
here  exhibits  itself  in  naked  simphcity.  Ah  !  how 
happy  is  that  man  who  has  attained  to  a  situation 
where  he  is  not  under  the  necessity  of  disguising 
truth  1 

But  these  pleasures  of  Solitude  are  not  incompati- 
ble with  our  duty  to  the  publick,  since  they  are  the 
noblest  exercises  in  which  we  can  employ  our  facul- 
ties for  the  good  of  mankind.  Can  it,  in  any  situation, 
be  a  crime  to  honour,  to  adore,  and  sacredly  to  speak 
TiiE  TRUTH  ?  Can  it  be  a  crime  boldly  and  publickly 
to  announce,  as  the  occasion  may  require,  that  which 
an  ordinary  individual  would  tremble  to  think  of ;  and 
to  prefer  a  generous  freedom  to  a  continual  restraint  ? 
Is  not  the  liberty  of  the  press  the  channel  through 
vhich  writers  diffuse  the  light  of  truth  among  the 
PEOPLE,  and  display  its  I'adiance  to  the  eyes  of  the 
great  ?  Good  writers  inspire  the  miiul  with  courage 
to  think  ;  and  is  not  the  free  communication  of  senti- 
ment a  cause  of  the  progress  and  improvement  of  hu- 
man reason  ?  It  is  precisely  this  love  of  liberty  which 
leads  men  into  Solitude,  that  they  may  throw  off  the 
chains  by  v/hich  lliey  are  confined  in  the  world  ;  it  is 
from  this  disposition  to  U2  free,  that  he  who  thinks,  in 
Solitude,  boldly  speaks  a  language  which  perhaps  in 
society  he  would  not   have  dared  to  hazard   without 


ON'  TilE    MINB    AND    THE    HEART,  125 

pre  vaiition.  Timidity  never  iifids  its  way  into  Soli- 
iiidc*  The  man  who  lias  courage  to  retire  under 
peaceful  lonely  shades,  disdains  to  exercise  a  base  rAib- 
misslon  to  the  pride  and  insolence  of  the  great, 
and  boldly  tears  from  the  face  of  despotism  the  mask 
by  whicii  it  is  concealed* 

Solitude  conveys  the  most  sublime  and  lasthig 
pleasures  to  the  soul,  unless  the  body  which  it  inhabits 
be  entirely  decayed  ;  pleasures  wJiich  inspire  serenity 
in  every  situation  of  Hfe,  afford  consolation  under  all 
its  misfortunes,  continue  tor  ever  unexhausted,  and  at 
length,  become  as  necessary  to  our  happiness,  as  it 
is  to  the  debauched  mind  of  a  man  of  the  world  to  be 
for  evsr  trifling,  inactive,  or  running  from  door  to 
door  in  search  of  contemptible  joys  that  are  never  to 
be  found.  Cicero,  speaking  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
Tiiind,  says,  <*  They  employ  us  in  youth,  and  amuse 
<^  us  in  okl  age  ;  in  prosperity  they  grace  and  em- 
"  hellish,  in  adversity  they  afford  us  shelter  and  sup- 
"  port  ;  delightful  at  home,  and  easy  abroad,  they 
<'  soften  sluuiber,  shorten  fatigue,  and  enhven  retire- 
"  ment." — ^'  The  Belles  Letters,"  says  Pliny  the 
"  Younger,  are  my  delight  and  consolation.  I  know 
"  of  no  study  more  agreeable  :  there  is  no  misfor- 
<'  tune  which  they  cannot  alleviate.  In  the  afflictions 
*'  I  feel  for  the  sufferings  of  my  wife,  the  sickness  of 
<^  my  servants,  the  death  of  my  friends,  I  find  no 
"  relief  but  in  my  studies  ;  for,  although  I  am  then 
"  made  sensible  of  the  magnitude  of  my  evils,  they 
"  nevertheless  become  more  supportable." 

Pliilosophy,  a  love  of  letters,  all  that  affords  plea- 
sure or  adds  dignity  to  retirement,  can  only  be  learned 
in  Solitude.  Fine  taste  cannot  be  either  cultivated  or 
preserved  among  those  vain  pretenders,  who,  while 
you  discourse  with  them  upon  subjects  of  science, 
speak  of  learning  with  contempt,  and   frequently  teii 

L    2 


J2^  THt  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

you  with  a  sneer,  "  Oh  I  I  never  enquire  into  such 
*^  vulgar  things." 

The  habit  of  thinking,  of  making  new  discoveries, 
of  acquiring  new  ideas,  is  a  never-failing  resource  to 
him  who  feels  his  mind  enriched  by  observation,  and 
knows  how  to  apply  the  knowledge  which  he  gains. 
When  Demetrius  had  captured  the  city  of  Megara^ 
the  soldiers  prepared  to  plunder  it  ;  the  Athenians, 
however,  interceding  strongly  for  its  inhabitants,  pre- 
vailed :  Demetrius  was  satisfied  with  expelhng  the 
garrison,  and  declared  the  city  free.  Amidst  these 
transactions,  he  recolleced  Stilfo,  a  philosopher  of 
great  reputation,  who  sought  only  the  retirement  and 
tranquility  of  a  studious  life.  Having  sent  for  him, 
Demetrius  asked,  "  if  they  had  taken  any  thing 
*'  from  him  T'— ."  Ao,"  replied  Stilpo,  "  I  found  none 
^'  that  voarited  to  steal  any  knoivledge,^' 

Solitude  is  the  channel  through  which  all  those 
things  flow  which  men  conceal  in  the  ordinary  com- 
merce of  life.  The  wounded  feelings  of  a  man  who 
is  able  and  disposed  to  write,  may,  in  Solitude,  derive 
the  greatest  comforts  from  literary  composition.  The 
pen,  indeed,  is  not  always  taken  up  because  v/e  are 
alone  ;  but  if  we  are  inchned  to  write,  it  is  indispensa- 
bly necessary  that  we  should  enjoy  undisturbed  quie- 
tude. The  mind  disposed  to  cultivate  philosophy,  or 
to  court  the  muse,  must  be  free'  from  all  embarrass- 
ment. He  must  not  hear  his  children  crying  tw^vy 
moment  at  his  door,  nor  must  his  servants  incessantly 
intrude  with  messages  of  ceremony  and  cards  of  com- 
pliment. In  short,  he  must  be  alone.  Whether 
walking  in  the  open  air  or  seated  in  his  closet,  reclin- 
ed under  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree  or  stretched 
upon  his  sopha,  he  must  follow  all  the  impulses  of  his 
mind,  and  be  at  liberty  to  change  his  situation  when 
and  where  he  pleases.  To  write  with  success,  he 
must  feel  an  irresisttible  inclination;  and  be  ^ble  to  obey 


ON    THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  127 

the  dictates  of  his  ta^e  and  genius  without  impedi- 
ment or  restraint.  Unless  all  these  advantages  be  uni- 
ted, the  progress  of  the  work  must  be  interrupted,  and 
the  efforts  of  the  mind  suspended,  until  it  feels  that  di- 
vine inspiration  which  is  capable  of  subduing  every  dif- 
ficulty and  surmountmg  every  obstacle.  An  author 
can  never  write  well,  unless  he  feels  a  secret  call  with- 
m  his  breast,  unless  he  watches  for  these  propitious 
moments  when  the  mind  pours  forth  its  ideas,  and  the 
heart  warms  with  the  subject.  Revived  by  cheerful 
prospects,  animated  by  the  noblest  sentiments,  urged 
by  contempt  of  difficulties,  the  mind  will  make  a  pow- 
erful effort,  and  fine  thoughts,  in  suitable  expressions, 
will  flow  spontaneously  from  his  pen.  The  question, 
whether  he  ought,  or  ought  not,  to  write,  will  then 
be  resolved.  The  hiclination  is  irresistable,  and 
will  be  indulged,  even  at  the  expence  of  fortune,  fami- 
ly, friends,  patrons,  and  all  that  we  possess. 

Petrauch  felt  this  secret  impulse  when  he  tore 
himself  from  A-vignon^  the  most  vicious  and  corrupted 
city  of  his  time,  to  which  the  Pope  had  transferred  the 
papal  chair.  Although  honoured  with  the  protection 
of  the  Holy  Father,  of  princes,  and  of  cardinals,  still 
young  and  full  of  noble  ardour,  he  exiled  himself  from 
that  brilliant  court,  and  retired  to  the  famous  Solitude 
of  Vauclufie^  at  the  distance  of  six  leagues  from  Jlvig* 
non^  where  he  had  only  one  servant  to  attend  him,  and 
all  his  possessions  consisted  of  a  small  house  and  little 
garden.  Charmed  with  the  natural  beauty  which  sur- 
rounded his  humble  retreat,  he  removed  his  library  to 
it ;  and,  during  his  residence  there,  compleated  all  his 
works,  of  which  before  he  had  only  sketched  the  out- 
lines. Petrarch  wrote  more  at  Vauclme  than  at  any 
other  place  where  he  risided  ;  but,  although  he  was 
continually  employed  in  polishing  his  writings,  he  hes- 
itated long  before  he  could  resolve  to  make  them  pub- 
lic,      Virgil  calls  the  leisure  >vhich  he  enjoyed  at 


i2S  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDK 

Mifiles  ignoble  and  obsc\jre  ;  but  it  was  during  tliislei- 
'  sure  that  he  wrote  his  Georgics,  the  most  perfect  of 
all  his  works,  and  v/hich  shews  in  almost  every  hne 
that  he  wrote  for  immortality. 

Every  great  and  excellent  writer  has  this  noble  view, 
and  looks  with  enthusiasm  towards  the  suflfrages  of 
posterity.  An  inferior  vv^riter  asks  a  more  moderate 
recompence,  and  sometimes  obtains  the  desired  re- 
ward. Both,  however,  must  withdraw  from  the  dis- 
tractions of  the  world,  seek  the  silence  of  the  forest, 
and  the  freshness  of  tiie  shade,  and  retire  as  it  were  in- 
to their  own  minds.  To  produce  a  work  capar)Ie  of 
reaching  future  generations,  or  worthy  the  attention  of 
contemporary  sages,  the  love  of  Solitude  must  entirely 
occupy  the  soul ;  for,  to  the  advantages  resulting  from 
*  Solitude,  every  thing  they  perform,  all  that  they  attain 
must  be  attributed.  Every  advantage  a  writer  gams 
by  profound  thinking  is  due  to  Solitude  ;  he  there  re- 
views and  arranges  wliatever  in  the  v/prld  has  made 
an  impression  on  his  mind,  and  sharpens  the  dart  of 
satire  against  the  inveteracy  of  prejudice  and  the  ob- 
stinacy of  opinion.  The  faults  of  mankind  strike  the 
moral  writer,  and  the  desire  of  correcting  them  agi- 
tates his  soul  as  much  as  the  desire  of  pleasing  actu- 
ates that  of  others.  The  desire  of  immortality,  how- 
ever, is  the  last  in  which  a  writer  ought  to  indulge.—* 
No  one  need  attempt  it,  unless  he  possess  the  genius 
of  a  Bacon  ;  can  think  with  the  acuteness  of  a  Vol- 
taire ;  compose  with  the  ease  and  elegance  of  a 
Rousseau  ;  and,  like  them,  is  able  to  produce  master 
pieces  worthy  of  being  transmitted  to  posterity.  Char- 
acters like  these  alone  can  say,  "  Our  minds  are  ani- 
"  mated  by  the  sweet  consolatory  reflection,  that  our 
"  names  will  be  remembered  when  we  are  no  npore  ; 
*'  by  the  pleasing  whisper  of  flattery  which  we  hear 
*'  from  some  of  oiir  contemporaries,  of  the  approbation 
*<  we  shall  hereafter  receive  from  those  who  are  yet 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  139 

^^  unborn;  to  whose  instruction  and  happiness  we  have, 
"  with  all  the  ardour  and  esteem  of  love,  devoted  our 
"  labours.  We  feci  within  us  those  seeds  of  emula- 
"  tion,  which  incite  us  to  rescue  from  death  our  better 
"  part,  and  wiiich  prevent  the  happiest  moments  of 
^'  our  lives  from  being  buried  in  oblivion," 

The  love  of  fame,  as  well  by  the  feeble  light  of  the 
lamp  as  on  the  throne  or  in  the  field  of  battle,  produces 
actions,  the  memory  of  which  is  not  extinguished  by 
mortality,  nor  buried  with  us  in  the  tomb.  The  me- 
ridian of  life  becomes  then  as  brilliant  as  its  morning. 
<'  The  praises"  says  Plutarch,  "  bestowed  upon 
*^  great  and  exalted  minds  only  spur  on  and  rouse 
<<  their  emulation.  Like  a  rapid  torrent,  the  glory 
^*  which  they  have  already  acquired  hurries  them  ir- 
"  resistably  on  to  every  thnig  that  is  great  and  noble. 
<«  They  never  consider  themselves  sufficiently  reward- 
^\  ed.  Their  present  actions  are  only  a  pledge  of  what 
"  may  be  expected  from  them,  and  they  would  blush 
"  not  to  live  faithful  to  their  glory,  and  to  render  it 
**  still  more  illustrious  by  the  noblest  actions." 

The  man  to  whose  ear  idle  adulation  and  insipid 
compliment  is  disgusting,  will  feel  his  heart  warm 
when  he  hears  with  what  enthusiasm  Cicero  says, 
"  Why  should  we  dissemble  what  it  is  impossible  for 
"  us  to  conceal  ?  Why  should  we  not  be  proud  of  con- 
"  fessing  candidly  that  we  all  aspire  to  fame  ?  The 
<^  love  of  praise  influences  all  mankind,  and  the  great- 
"  est  minds  are  most  susceptible  of  it.  The  philoso- 
'^  phers  who  most  preach  up  a  contempt  for  fame, 
"  prefix  their  names  to  their  works  ;  and  the  very 
"  performances,  in  which  they  decry  ostentation,  are 
<^  evident  proofs  of  their  vanity  and  love  of  praise. 
"  Virtue  requires  no  other  reward  for  all  the  toils  and 
"  dangers  to  which  she  exposes  herself,  than  that  of 
"  fame  and  glory.  Take  away  this  flattering  reward, 
"  and  what  would  remain  in  the  ns^rrow  career  of  life 


1*0  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

"  to  prompt  her  exertions  ?  If  the  tnind  conkl  not 
"  launch  into  the  prospect  of  futurity,  were  the  space 
*'  that  bounds  those  of  the  body,  she  v/ould  not  weaken 
"  herself  by  constant  fatigues,  nor  weary  herself  with 
<^  continual  watchings  and  anxieties  ;  she  would  not 
<*  think  even  life  itself  worthy  of  a  struggle  :  but 
**  there  lives  in  the  breast  of  every  good  man,  a  cer- 
"  tain  principle,  wliich  unceasingly  prompts  and  in- 
*'  spirits  him  to  the  pursuit  of  a  fame  beyond  the 
*'  present  hour  ;  a  fime,  not  commensurate  to  our 
"  mortal  existence,  but  co-extensive  with  the  latest 
<'  pcst-erlty.  Can  we,  who  every  day  expose  ourselves 
'*  to  dangers  for  our  country,  and  have  never  passed 
^'  one  moment  of  our  lives  without  anxiety  and  ti'ou- 
^'  ble,  meanly  think,  that  all  consciousness  shall  be 
''  buried  with  us  in  the  grave  ?  If  the  greatest  men 
"  have  been  careful  to  preserve  their  bustoes  and 
*'  their  statues,  those  images,  not  of  their  minds,  but 
"  of  their  bodies,  ought  we  not  rather  transmit  to  pos- 
"  terity  the  resemblance  of  our  wisdom  and  virtue  ? 
"  For  my  part,  at  least,  I  acknov/Iedge,  that  in  all  mf 
''  actioiis,  I  conceived  that  I  was  disseminating  and 
"  transmitting;  my  fame  to  the  remotest  corners  and 
"  the  latest  ages  of  the  world*  Whether,  therefore, 
"  my  consciousness  of  this  shall  cease  in  the  grave, 
"  or,  as  some  have  thought,  shall  survive,  as  a  pro- 
"  perty  of  the  soul,  is  of  little  inapovtance  ;  for  of  one 
"  thing  I  am  certain — that  at  this  instant  I  feci  from 
"  the  reflection  a  flattering  hope  and  delightful  sensa- 
"  tion." 

This  is  the  true  enthusiasm  v/itli  wliich  we  ought  to 
insp're  the  bosoms  of  the  young  nobility.  Were  any- 
one happy  enough  to  liglvt  up  this  generous'^  flame 
within  their  hearts,  and  thereby  inure  them  to  a  con- 
stant application  to  their  studies,  we  should  see  them 
shun  the  pernicious  pleasures  of  their  age,  and  enter 
with  dignity  on  the  career  of  heroes  f  we  might  then 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    TMR    HEART.  IS  I 

expect  them  to  perform  the  noblest  actions,  to  add  new 
histre  to  science,  and  brighter  rays  to  glory.  To  ex^ 
alt  the  minds  of  noble  youths,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
inspu-e  them  with  an  aversion  from  every  thing  that  is 
mean  ;  to  excite  a  disgust  from  every  thing  that  en- 
ervates the  hotly  or  weakens  the  faculties  of  the  mind  5 
to  remove  from  their  company  those  vile  ai^d  Con- 
temptible flatterers  who  are  continually  descanting-  on 
the  pleasures  of  sense,  and  who  seek  to  acquire  irite- 
rest  and  fortune  only  by  leading  them  into  crimes  ; 
decrying  everything  that  is  great,  and  rendering  tliem 
suspicious  of  every  thing  that  is  good.  The  desire  of 
extending  our  fame  by  noble  deeds,  and  of  increasing 
our  credit  by  internal  dignity  and  greatness  of  soul, 
possesses  advantages  v/hich  neither  high  rank  nor  il- 
lustrious birth  can  bestow;  and  which,  even  on  the 
throne,  cannot  be  acquired  without  the  aid  of  virtue, 
and  a  fixed  attention  to  the  suffrages  of  posterity. 

The  seeds  of  future  fame  are,  in  no  instance,  more 
plentifully  sov  n  than  by  the  bold  satirist  who  dares  to 
i  condemn  the   folHes  of  the  multitude,   to   paint  their 
!  prejudices,  and  expose  their  vices,  in  glowing  ?.nd  un- 
i  fading  colours  ;  and  whose  writings,  if  they  ii\il  to  re- 
!  form  the  people  of  that  age,   may  operate  upon  sue- 
ceeding  generations,  extend  their  influence  to  their 
children's   children,  and  perhaps  render  them  more 
wise.     Judicious  precepts,   great  examples,  merited 
I  glory,  produce  their  effects,  when  the  man  of  merit, 
whom  envy  has  pursued,  has  descended  to  his  grave. 
O,  Lavater  !  those  base,  corrupted  souls,  who  only 
shine  a  moment  and  arc  forever  extinguished,  will  be 
forgotten,  while  thy  merit  is  honoured  and  beloved. — 
Thy  foibles,  for  without  them,  thou  wouldst  not,  inef-?. 
feet,  have  been  so  great,  will  no  longer  be  remembered, 
W— and  those  qualities  which  distinguish  thee  from  oth- 
ers will  alone  be  seen  !     The  rich  variety  of  thy  lan- 
guagC;  the  judgement  with  which  thou  hast  boldly  in- 


132  THE  INFLUENCE   OF    SOLITUDE 

vented  and  created  new  expressions,  the  nervous  brev* 
ity  ot  thy  style,  and  thy  striking  picture  of  human  man* 
ners  and  defects,  w  ill,  as  the  authoi'  of  "  The  Charac- 
"  ters  of  German  Poets  and  Prose  Writers,"  has  pre*- 
dieted,  extend  the  fame  of  thy  "  Fragments  ufion  Phys* 
iot^nomif^  to  the  remotest  posterity,  asone  of  the  small 
numbt:r  of  German  originals  which  do  honour  to  the 
genius  of  the  age.  No  person  will  then  think  that  La^ 
VATER,  a  genius  who  has  developed  new  truths,  and 
created  for  himself  so  rich  a  language,  believed  in  the 
juggles  of  Gessner. 

Such  is  the  glory  which  attends  the  works  of  great 
and  excellent  writers.  The  life  after  death,  which  Ci- 
cero seemed  to  hope  for  with  so  much  enthusiasm, 
will  arrive.  The  approbation  which  Lavater  pre- 
dicted, his  work  onP/^z/?z\g'7?owz/ will  receive,  notwith* 
standing  all  those  injuries  which  have  been  heaped  up* 
on  it,  both  in  Swisserland  and  in  Germany.  But  if  Ci^ 
cero  had  been  only  a  Consul,  and  Lavater  only  a 
Thaumaturgus,*  little  of  either  the  one  or  the  other 
would  be  recorded  in  the  archives  of  Time,  which' 
swallows  up  the  common  characters  of  life,  and  only 
preserves  those  names  for  eternity  which  are  worthy 
of  everlasting  fame. 

The  invectives  of  the  vulgar,  the  indignation  of  the 
criticks,  are  wreaked  in  vain  against  these  celebrated 
names,  and  against  ail  those  w^ho  may  be  tempted  to 
imitate  them.  "  Why,'*  say  each  of  them  to  the 
laughing  blockhead,  "  would  you  expound  the  meaning 
S^  of  all  that  I  write,  since  my  finest  strokes,  glanc-? 
^'  ing  through  your  mind,  produce  such  frigid 
"  ideas  ?  Who  are  you  ?  By  what  title  do  you  claim 
"  to  be  keeper  of  the  archives  of  folly,  and  arbiter  of 

*  Thaiimaturgus — one  ioho  works  miracles  ;  a  title  gi^s 
ven  by  the  fiafmts  to  those  of  their  saints  %vho  ivere  *?//'? 
flosecl  to  ivork  miracles^ — Translator. 


©N   THE   MIND    AND   THE  HEART,  133 

<<  the  publick  taste  ?  Where  are  the  works  by  which 
*'  you  are  distinguished  ?  When  and  where  have  you 
<'  been  announced  to  the  world  ?  How  many  superior 
<'  characters  do  you  you  reckon  among  the  number 
"  of  your  friends  ?  What  distant  country  is  conscious 
<<  that  such  a  man  exists  ?  Why  do  you  continually 
**  preach  your  nil  admirari  ?  Why  do  you  strive  to 
"  depreciate  every  thing  that  is  good,  great,  and  sub- 
<'  lime,  unless  it  be  from  a  sense  of  your  own  little- 
*'  ness  and  poverty  ?  Do  you  seek  the  approbation  of 
"  the  wcAk  and  giddy  midtitude,  because  no  one  els(j 
"  esteems  you  ?  If  you  despise  a  fair  and  lasting  fame, 
"  because  you  can  do  nothing  that  is  worthy  of  honest 
"  praise,  the  name  you  endeavoured  to  ridicule,  shall 
"  be  remembered  when  yours  will  be  forgot." 

The  desire  of  glory  is  equally  natural  and  allowable, 
in  men  even  of  little  sense  and  judgement  ;  but  it  is 
not  from  the  opinion  of  such  characters,  that  writers 
expect  fame.  It  is  from  reflecting  and  impartial 
minds  ;  from  the  approbation  of  those  virtuous  and 
private  characters,  for  whom  alone  they  withdraw 
from  the  multitude,  and  whose  bosoms  open  willingly 
to  a  writer,  when  they  observe  the  confidence  v/ith 
which  he  desires  to  disclose  his  sentiments  ;  it  is  to 
obtain  the  approbation  of  such  persons  alone,  that 
writers  seek  the  shades  of  Solitude. 

After  those  who  scribble  their  names  on  walls  and 
on  panes  of  glass,  no  character  appears  to  me  less 
formed  for  glory  than  the  man  who  writes  solely  for 
the  place  in  which  he  dwells.  He  who,  without  being 
a  member  of  any  academy  or  literary  club,  seeks  for 
fame  among  his  fellow-citizens,  is  a  fool  who  sows  his 
seed  upon  a  rock.  They  may,  perhaps,  pardon  some- 
thing that  is  good  ;  but  nothing  that  is  severe,  greater 
free.  To  the  prejudiced  multitude,  therefore,  he  must 
learn  to  be  discreetly  silent  ;  for,  openly  to  avow  sen- 
timents which  would  do  honour  to  his  character,  or  by 

M 


134  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDJi 

wnich  he  might  acquire  the  praises  of  other  men,  is 
only  to  exasperate  against  himself  iili  those  among 
Avhoni  he  lives. 

But  a  writer  of  true  taste  and  sound  judgement  is^ 
conscious  tliat  impartial  and  rational  minds,  through- 
out the  universe,  adopt  other  principles,  in  apprecicUing 
the  merit  of  a  good  work,  than  those  which  miiuence 
the  judgement  of  his  fellow-citizens.  True  criticks 
enquire,  "  Does  the  work  relate  to  the  interests  of 
'^  mankind  ?  Is  its  object  useful,  and  its  end  moral  ? 
*'  Will  it  it  infoi'm  the  understanding  and  amend  the 
"  heart  I  Is  it  written  with  freedom  and  impartiality  ? 
*'  Does  it  bear  the  marks  of  honesty  and  sincerity  ? 
**'  Does  it  attempt  to  ridicule  anything  that  is  good  or 
"  great  ?  Does  a  manly  style  of  thinking  predomi- 
"  nate  ?  Does  reason,  wit,  humour  and  pleasantry 
"  prevail  in  it  ?  Does  it  contam  new  and  usefultruths  ? 
*'  If  it  inspires  noble  sentiments  and  generous  resolu- 
"  tions,  our  judgement  is  fixed—the  work  is  good— . 
"  and  the  author  a  master  of  the  science," 

In  the  ordinary  commerce  of  the  world  ;  in  that  in- 
tercourse of  flattery  and  falsehood,  where  every  one 
deceives  and  is  deceived  ;  where  all  appear  under  a 
borrowed  forai,  profess  friendsliips  which  they  do  not 
feel,  and  bestow  praises  only  that  they  may  receive 
them  back  in  return — men  bow  the  lowest  to  him 
whom  they  despise  the  most,  and  distingaiish  every  sil- 
ly woman  whom  they  meet  by  the  title  of  "  Yoin^ 
Grace."*  But  he  who  lives  retired  from  the  circle  of 
illusion  expects  no  compliments  from  others,  nor  bes- 
tows them  but  where  they  are  deserved.'  A  thousand 
of  the  insidious  grimaces  with  which  we  are  honoured 
ia  publick  life,  are  nothing  to  the  sweet  converse  of 
private  friendship,  which  inspires  us  with  a  noble  bold- 
ness, renders  us  insensible  to  all  the  oppressions  of  the 

*  j1  title  givefiy  in  Gcrmmy^  to  ficrsons  of  quality t. 


0??  THE    MIKO    AND    THE    HEAIIT.  135 

world,  points  out  the  road  to  true  honour,  and  accom- 
panies us  on  our  way  to  attain  it. 

Of  what  value  are  all  the  babbhngs  and  vain  boast- 
ings of  society,  to  that  doniestick  i^licily  which  we 
experience  in  the  company  and  convjisadon  of  an 
amiable  won\an,  whose  charms  awaken  all  the  dor- 
rrant  faculties  of  the  soul,  and  inspire  the  mind  with 
finer  energies  than  all  our  own  exertions  could  attain  ; 
\^ho,  in  the  execution  of  our  enterprises,  prompts  us 
by  her  assistance,  and  encourages  us  by  her  approba- 
tion, to  surmount  every  difnculty  ;  who  impresses  us 
with  the  greatliess  of  her  ideas,  and  the  sublimity  of 
her  sentiments  ;  who  weighs  and  ex;.; mines,  with  ju- 
dicious penetration,  our  thoughts,  our  actions,  our 
whole  character  ;  who  observes  all  our  foibles,  warns 
us  with  sincerity  of  their  consequences,  and  reforms 
us  with  gentleness  and  afTeciion  ;  who,  by  a  tender 
communication  of  all  her  thoughts  and  observations, 
coiiveysnew  instruction  to  our  minds,  za\d  by  pouring 
all  the  warm  and  generous  feelings  of  her  heart  into 
our  bosoms,  animates  us  incessantly  to  the  exercise  of 
every  virtue,  and  completes  the  polished  perfection  of 
our  character,  by  the  soft  allurements  of  love,  and  the 
delightful  concord  of  her  sentiments. 

In  such  an  intercojiirse,  all  that  is  virtuous  and  no- 
ble in  human  nature  is  preserved  within  the  breast, 
and  every  evil  propensity  dies  away.  The  multitude 
see  us  as  we  ought  to  be  in  publick,  and  not  as  we  are 
m  Solitude  ;  for  an  the  world,  we  always  turn  th^ 
smooth  surface  outwards,  and  carefully  conceal  all 
the  sharp  angles  of  our  characters  ;  by  which  means, 
V7C  contrive  to  pass  without  doing  hurt  to  any  person, 
and  men  find  pleasure  in  our  company.* 

*  "  Le  mntcriel  constitutes  the  highest  degree  of  merit ; 
^'  and  to  live  in  peace,  we  ought  to  take  great  care  t^iat 
*'  the  other  side  of  our  characters  should  be  perceived,'* 
said  a  great  man  to  me  ;  one  of  the  dearest  and  most  res- 
pectable among  my  friends  in  Germany. 


136  THE   INFLUENCE  OF   SOLITUDE 

But  we  are  viewed  with  different  eyes  by  our  fellow- 
citizens,  and  by  contemporary  writers.  By  the  latter, 
our  defects  as  well  as  our  good  qualities  are  easily 
discernible  in  our  writings,  which,  if  we  express  one 
sentiment  with  sincerity,  often  become  the  strongest 
evidences  against  us.  This  idea,  however,  is  consola- 
tory to  the  feelings  of  our  dear  countrymen,  to  whose 
ears,  perhaps,  the  praises  we  receive  may  reach,  and 
"who  are  obliged  to  admit  the  mortifying  idea,  that 
there  arc  people  in  the  world  who  hold  us  in  some 
esteem.  The  human  character,  it  is  true,  frequently 
exhibits  a  singular  mixture  of  virtue  and  vice,  of 
strength  and  weakness  ;  and  why  should  we  conceal 
it  ?  Our  foibles  follow  all  that  is  terrestrial  in  our  na- 
ture to  the  tomb,  and  lie  buried  with  the  body  inwhich 
they  were  produced.  The  nobler  part,  if  we  have 
performed  any  work  worthy  of  existence,  survives  ; 
and  our  writings  are  the  best  wealth  we  leave  behind 
us  when  we  die. 

But,  exclusive  of  this  enthusiasm,  Solitude  affords  a 
pleasure  to  an  author,  of  which  no  one  can  deprive 
him,  and  which  far  exceeds  all  the  honours  of  the 
world.  He  not  only  anticipates  the  effect  his  work 
•will  i)roduce,  but,  while  it  advances  towards  comple- 
tion, feels  the  delicious  enjoyment  of  those  hours  of 
serenity  and  composure  which  his  labours  procure. 

What  pleasure  Hows  through  the  mind  of  an  estab- 
lished writer,  from  the  uninterrupted  attention  and  the 
glowing  enthusiasm  which  accompanies  it !  Sorrows 
£y  from  this  elegant  occupation,  and  misfortunes  are 
forgotten.  Oh  !  I  would  not  exchange  one  single 
hour  of  such  perfect  tranquility,  for  all  those  flat- 
tering illusions  of  eternal  fame  with  which  the  mind  of 
•TuLLY  was  so  incessantly  intoxicated.  Sohtude,  in 
the  midst  of  continual  sufferings,  is  an  enjoyment 
which  not  only  rationally  connects  the  soul  with  the 
present  jnomentj  but  renders  it  susceptible  of  every 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  137 

good  impression,  and  raises  it  to  felicity.  The  secret 
pleasure  of  having  produced  at  least  something,  is  un- 
known lo  men  of  vigorous  constitutions  ;  for  they 
confide  in  the  strength  of  their  po\yers.  But  to  a  wri- 
ter aiilicted  by  Ul  health,  a  difficulty  surmounted,  a 
happy  moment  seized,  a  proposition  elucidated,  a  sen- 
teiice  neatly  and  elegantly  turned,  an  harmonious  peri- 
od or  a  happy  expression,  are  salutary,  and  healing 
balms,  counler-poisons  to  melancholy,  the  most  pre- 
cious advantages  of  Solitude,  and  infinitely  superior 
to  those  dreams,  those  presentiments  of  honour  and 
glory  afce^'  death.  Oh  1  who  would  not  willingly  re- 
nounce, for  one  of  these  enjoyments,  that  enthusiasm, 
against  which  I'eason  opposes  so  many  powerful  ob- 
jections ;  and  which,  to  me,  does  not  appear  quite  satis- 
factory, except  when  we  do  not  altogether  enjoy  our 
usual  presence  of  n)ind. 

To  enjoy  himself  without  being  dependent  on  the 
aid  of  others  ;  to  devote  to  employments  not,  perhaps, 
altogether  useless,  those  hours  which  sorrow  and  cha- 
grin would,  otherwise,  steal  from  the  sum  of  life — is 
the  great  eulvantage  of  an  author  ;  and  with  this  ad- 
vantage, alone,  I  am  perfectly  content.  And  who  is 
there  that  does  not  derive  pleasure  from  Solitude, 
wlien  he  perceives  the  progress  he  is  capable  of  ma- 
kincj;  during- a  few  hours,  v/hile  the  multitude  roll  in 
their  carriages  through  the  street,  and  make  every 
w^all  of  the  house  tremble  to  its  foundation  ? 

The  singularities  of  some  writers  are,  oftentimes,  the 
effects,  and  frequently  the  real  advantages  of  Solitude. 
Long  absent  from  all  commerce  with  the  world,  their 
dispositions  become  less  flexible  and  compliant.  Even 
lie,  however,  who  has  preserved  the  manners  of  socie- 
ty, is  not  fond  of  being  obliged  to  shew  himself  in 
company  differently  from  what  he  is  ;  and  he  seizes 
the  pen,  from  sport,  if  it  be  only  to  afford  a  single 
consolation  to  his  feelings. 

Ma 


138  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

But  in  this,  pevhaps,  the  world  may  say  that  a  wri*- 
ter'acts  improperly  ;  and  that  this  easy  manner  of  en- 
tertaining the  reader  neither  contributes  to  his  pleasure 
nor  his  information.  This  style  of  writing,  however, 
]ias  its  merit  ;  hterature  acquires,  by  it,  a  greater  de- 
gree of  freedom  ;  it  teaches  the  mind  to  rise  above  a 
creeping,  servile  train  of  thought  ;  and  it  is  more  ap- 
propriated to  the  necessities  of  the  time.  If  a  nation  is 
not  yet  possessed  of  all  that  its  greatest  men  could 
wish,  she  may  attain  it,  if  they  are  capable  of  extirpa- 
ting ancient  prejudices,  if  freedom  of  sentiment  be  en- 
couraged, and  if,  in  each  province,  some  philosophical 
ivriters  should  be  found  who  boldly  express  their  opin- 
ions. To  entertain  readers  is,  in  my  opinion,  only  to 
deliver  freely,  in  writing,  that  which,  in  the  general  in- 
tercourses of  society,  it  is  impossible  to  say,  either 
•with  safety  or  politeness.  This  is  what  I  call  Liberty 
—-an  inestimable  treasure  !  which,  under  a  wise  and 
anoderate  administration,  every  one  enjoys  who  lives 
in  Solitude.' 

In  a  treatise  upon  Style,  printed  at  Weymar^  a 
gentleman  appears  very  strongly  to  oppose  this  new 
manner  of  v/riting.  In  honour  of  the  Solitude  and 
Liberty  by  which  it  was  produced,  I  should  have 
man}/  things  to  say  to  him,  although  I  perfectly  coin- 
cide with  him  upon  many  points.  He  wishes  one  gen- 
eral rule  to  be  adopted  with  respect  to  style^  and  I  con- 
tend for  that  freedom  in  literary  compositiolis  which 
"will  allow  of  style  according  to  every  man's  fancy  and 
humour.  He  thinks  that  a  writer  should  always  have 
a  model  before  him  ;  I  think  that  every  writer  is  his 
ow^n  model.  He  wishes  writers  to  follow  the  style  of 
others  ;  I  think  that  writers  should,  as  much  as  it  is 
possible,  let  every  thing  be  their  own — not  the  style 
nlone,  but  every  other  property  belonging  to  composi- 
tion. He  is  unwilling  that  the  writer  should  be  dis- 
coverable in  the  work  \  though  it  appears  to  me,  that 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  iS9 

he  may  be  permitted  publickly  to  decomficse  the  state 
of  the  mmc],  and  to  make  observations  on  his  own 
character,  for  the  benelit  of  other  men,  rather  than  to 
leave  his  body,  by  will,  to  a  professor  of  anatomy. — 
He  recommends  authors  to  proceed  by  regular  steps  ; 
I  hate  to  be  taug*htj  by  others,  how  I  ought  to  walk.— . 
He  says,  tbat  it  is  the  present  fashion  with  authors  to 
disclose  what  were  the  feelings  of  their  souls  when  they 
wrote  ;  I  cannot  altogether  conceal  how  I  find  myself 
when  I  converse  with  my  readers.  He  appears  not 
inclined  that  they  sliould  conceive  then^selves  alone 
wdien  they  are  writing  ;  while,  very  frequently,  I  write 
only  that  I  may  have  the  opportunity  of  expressing 
one  word  alone. 

This  treatise  upon  tlie  subject  of  style,  however, 
contains,  in  general,  a  true  and  judicious  criticism  ; 
and  especially  towards  the  conclusion,  which  is  filled 
with  observations  equally  accurate  and  profound.  This 
was  the  only  passage,  through  the  work,  of  which  I 
disapproved  ;  for  although  the  ramblings,  extravagan- 
ces and  digressions  of  our  beaux  cs/irits  displease  me 
as  much  as  they  do  this  gentleman,  I  think,  neverthe- 
less, that  this  free  and  easy  style  of  writing,  which  can 
only  be  acquired  in  Solitude,  has  produced  a  greater 
degree  of  liberty  than  was  heretofore  enjoyed — and 
that  this  LIBERTY,  employed  with  taste  and  discretion, 
will  promote  the  chxulation  of  a  greater  number  of 
useful  truths  than  there  still  exist  of  dangerous  preju- 
dices. 

The  light  of  philosophy  has  been  prevented  from 
penetrating  into  many  recesses,  solely  because  the 
manners  of  societies,  the  voice  of  the  people,  and  the 
opinion  of  the  publick,  follow  one  uniform  step.  Ev- 
ery man  listens  and  looks  up  to  the  sentiments  of  his 
neighbour  ;  and  no  one  dares  to  deviate  from  the  ordi- 
nary mode  of  judgement.  Men  of  the  world,  who 
best  kuow  the  art  of  appropriating  to  themselves  the 


140  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDt 

newest  and  most  refined  ideas  of  others,  are  obliged  to 
conceal  them,  and  to  follow  the  e^eneral  manners  of 
the  age.  But  when  authors  begin,  from  the  retreats  of 
Solitude,  to  appear  before  the  publick  without  dismay  ; 
when  they  study  the  characters  of  every  description  of 
people,  with  their  manner  of  acting,  and  their  modes 
of  thinking  ;  when  they  once  dare,  with  boldness  and 
confidence,  to  describe  things  by  their  true  names,  and 
disclose,  by  their  writings,  ail  those  truths  which  eve- 
ry free  and  liberal  mind  ought  to  be  permitted  to  dis- 
close ;  their  iNSTRuctioN  will  circulate  gradually 
among  the  people,  the  philosophy  of  human  life  will 
spread  itself  abroad,  every  man  will  dare  to  think  for 
himself,  and  disdain  to  be  guided  by  the  publick  opin- 
ion. To  effect  this  revolution,  however,  it  is  necessary 
that  our  writers  should  be  acquainted  with  a  different 
region  than  merely  that  of  the  University,  or  even  of 
their  own  provincial  town  :  their  minds  must  be  form- 
ed by  an  intercourse  with  men  of  every  state  and  every 
nation  :  they  must  neither  fear  the  great  nor  despise 
the  inferior  classes  of  mankind  ;  and  they  must  learn 
to  retire  occasionally  from  this  intercourse  with  the 
world,  to  long  and  uninterrupted  Solitude  ;  to  re- 
nounce the  seductions  of  pleasure,  to  free  themselves 
from  the  ties  of  Society,  and  above  all,  to  become 
deaf  to  the  praise  or  censure  of  those  among  whom 
they  live,  when  employed  as  inducements  to  the  pro- 
pagation of  falsehood,  or  the  suppression  of  truth. 

The  Germans  telt  an  Helvetic  severity  in  the  taste 
and  style  of  those  works  which  I  formerly  wrote,  and 
this  severity  was,  without  doubt,  the  consequence  of 
my  solitary  life.  The  Spectator  of  Thuringia^  for 
four  years  successively,  defended  me  with  equal  vi- 
vacity and  skill  against  the  very  heavy  reproaches,  that 
I  was  a  peevish,  hypocritical  philosopher,  who  was 
never  pleased  with  any  production,  and  always  viewed 
the  worst  side  of  things  j  that  nothing  was  sacred  from 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  141 

the  keenness  of  my  criticism,  and  the  severit)^  of  my 
satire  ;  but  that  the  nation  was  too  modest,  too  decent, 
too  delicate,  and  too  virtuous  to  be  entertained  by  such 
compositions  ;  in  short,  that  EngHsh  writers  were  in- 
sufferable to  German  delicaey,  and  of  consequence, 
it  was  impossible  to  endure  the  Swiss. 

But  it  appears  to  mc,  that  they  confound  the  man- 
ners of  the  world  with  the  style  of  books.  Harshness 
is,  without  doubt,  excluded  from  society  ;  whilst,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  naked  truths  which  well-written 
works  orjetters  from  time  to  time  disclose,  frequently 
strike  the  mind,  and  produce  an  effect.  "  I  am  my- 
"  self  extremely  chaste,"  said  a  poet,  "  but  I  ac- 
"  knowledge  that  my  works  are  not."  A  writer, 
therefore,  may  be  civil  and  polite  in  his  personal 
intercourse  with  mankind,  and  still  properly  severe  in 
his  works.  Why  should  authors  write  as  they  speak, 
if  they  never  speak  as  they  think  ?  Is  it  not  enough 
that  when  they  mix  in  Society  they  endeavour  to  please 
every  one  ;  that  when  they  have  once  entered  into  So- 
ciety, they  submit,  without  exception,  to  whatever 
the  laws  of  politeness  exact  ;  give  up  whatever  is  in- 
sisted on,  maintain  no  opinions  unnecessarily,  always 
yield  the  privilege  of  talking  to  others,  and  do  every 
thing  as  if  they  were  only  there  to  hear  and  learn  ? 
Are  there  not,  however,  many  beaux  esfirits  who  are 
insufferable  in  company,  from  a  vain  conceit  that  their 
writings  are  the  last  best  models  of  elegance  and  ur- 
banity ?  Would  not  such  a  character  act  more  wisely, 
to  correct,  in  his  commerce  with  the  world,  the  er- 
rours  that  may  have  escaped  from  his  pen,  than  to 
restrain  his  pen  and  never  check  his  tongue  ?  He,  alas  ! 
who  in  the  circles  of  Society,  is  kind  in  his  behaviour 
and  complaisant  in  his  manners,  may  surely  be  per- 
mitted, once  at  least,  to  hazard  in  his  writings,  a  bold, 
or  even  a  harsh  expression,  and  to  insert  here  and 


I 


ji42  THE  INi'LUENCfi   OF    SOLITUDE 

there  a  melancholy  truth,  when  so  many  others  afc 
occupied  in  circulating-  sprightly  falsekoods. 

Energy  of  thought  is  banished  from  the  language 
of  conversation.  But  if  the  freedom  with  which  an 
author  expresses  himself  in  his  writing's,  be  insufi'era- 
ble  in  the  intercourse  with  the  world,  the  soft  and 
meretricious  language  of  seciety  would  be  ridiculous 
in  literary  composition.  An  author  must  speak  in  the 
language  of  truth  ;  in  Society,  a  man  is  in  the  con* 
stant  habit  of  feeling  it  only,  for  he  must  impose  a 
necessary  silence  upon  his  lips.  The  manners  of  wnen 
are  formed  by  intercourse  with  the  world  ;  and  their 
characters  by  retiring  hi  to  Solitude.  Here  thsy  will 
soon  discover  whether  they  have  only  learned  com- 
plaisance, or  have  acquired  freedom  of  thought,  firm- 
ness of  expression,  dignity  of  sentiment,  and  grandeur 
of  style. 

Solitude  raises  the  mind  to  a  high  degree  of  eleva- 
tion and  power.  The  man  v/ho  has  not  courage  enough 
to  place  himself  above  the  prejudices  and  fashions  of 
the  world  ;  who  dreads  the  reproach  of  singularity  ; 
who  forms  and  conducts  himself  upon  the  example  of 
others  ;  will  certainly  never  acquire  a  sufficient  de- 
gree of  resolution,  to  live  a  life  of  voluntary  Solitude. 
It  has  been  well  observed,  that  Solitude  is  as  indis- 
pensably necessary  to  give  a  just,  solid,  firm  and 
forcible  tone  to  our  thoughts,  as  a  knowledge  of  the 
world  is  to  give  them  richness  and  brilHancy,  and  to 
teach  us  to  make  a  wise  and  happy  application  of 
them. 

The  mind,  when  employed  in  the  pursuit  of  noble 
interesting  objects,  is  cleansed  from  those  impurities 
with'  which  the  habits  of  indolence  stain  the  vacant 
breast.  The  soul,  enjoying  freedom  and  tranquility, 
feels  all  its  energies  with  superior  force,  and  displays 
an  extent  of  power  which  was  before  unknown.  The 
f^iLL  sharpens  itself  in  Solitude  5  for  as  the  faculties 


ON  TH5    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  143 

are  capable  of  greater  exertions  in  the  liesure  it  af- 
fords, as  we  enjoy  greater  liberty  and  tranquility,  as 
our  ideas  become  more  clear,  luminous  and  extendr 
ed,  as  we  see  with  greater  certainty  into  the  conse- 
quences of  things,  the  mind  exacts  much  more  from 
itself  in  Solitude  than  in  the  world.  The  tranquility 
of  Solitude,  however,  must  not  degenerate  into  idle 
^ase,  into  a  state  of  mental  numbness  or  stupefaction. 
It  is  not  sufficient  for  this  purpose,  to  be  continually 
gazing  out  of  a  window  with  a  thoughtless  mind,  or 
gravely  walking  up  and  down  one's  study  in  a  ragged 
robe  de  chambre  and  worn  out  slippers.  The  exterior 
of  tranquility  gives  no  elevation  to  the  soul,  inspires 
no  activity,  except  when  we  are  well  persuaded  that 
Solitude  is  necessary,  or  feel  it  to"  be  a  desire  of  the 
soul.  It  is  then  only  that  it  becomes  a  precious  liber- 
ty, animating,  at  the  same  instant,  both  the  reason  and 
the  imai^ination. 

One  of  my  illustrious  friends  has  frequently  assur* 
ed  me,  that  he  never  felt  so  stroni^  an  inclination  to 
write,  as  during  a  review,  when  forty  thousand  per- 
sons left  their  houses,  and  travelled  on  foot,  in  car- 
riages, or  on  horseback,  to  observe  the  manoeuvres  of 
n  single  battallion.  This  friend  has  published  many 
treatises  upon  the  sciences,  but  he  never  wrote  a  tri^ 
fie  full  of  wit  and  gaiety,  until  the  day  of  the  review. 
In  early  youth,  I  never  felt  so  strong  a  disposition  to 
employ  my  mind  on  serious  subjects,  as  on  Sunday 
mornings,  when,  far  retired  iu  the  country,  I  heard 
the  sharp  and  tinkling  sound  of  the  village  bells,  while 
all  my  fellow-citizens,  occupied  in  their  devotion^, 
frizzled  and  powdered  their  heads  to  go  to  church. 

Continual  interruption  destroys  all  the  good  efiects 
of  Solicude,  Disturbance  prevents  the  mind  from  col-- 
lecting  Its  ideas*  This  is  the  reason  why  an  estab- 
lishment frequently  takes  away  more  advantages  than 
it  brings.     In  the  world,  every  person  is  obliged  to 


144       THE  INFLUENCE  OF  SOLITUDE 

attend  to  the  duties  of  his  particular  station,  and  must 
perform  what  they  exact  from  him  ;  but  in  Solitude, 
a  man  may  be  just  what  he  wishes,  and  what  he  is. 
If^  therefore,  a  judicious  philosopher,  or  a  man  of 
genius  does  not  follow  the  received  usages  of  his  sta- 
tion, they  say  of  him,  "  This  is  a  fool  ;  he  only  knows 
^'  how  to  write  books  :"  or  perhaps,  "  His  v/ritings 
^'  are  good,  but  as  for  himself,  he  is  an  ass." 

The  mind  of  a  solitary  man  attacks  prejudice  and 
error,  with  as  much  vigour  and  courage  as  an  athletic 
champion  meets  his  adversary.  Repeated  examina' 
tions  bring  the  objects  of  our  attention  more  near  ; 
we  behold  their  properties  with  greater  certainty,  and 
feel  more  strongly  that  which  we  have  seen.  If  the 
soul  enter  entirely  into  itself,  it  then  becomes  more 
easy  to  work  with  efficacy  on  external  objects.  A 
man  of  a  reflecting  and  intrepid  mind,  who  retires 
within  his  own  bosom,  seizes  tkuth  v/herever  he 
discovers  her,  and  regards  with  the  tranquil  smile  of 
pity,  those  v/ho  think  themselves  authorised  to  speak 
of  her  with  contempt  ;  he  hears,  without  being  dis- 
concerted, the  invectives  which  envy  and  prejudice 
throw  out  against  him  ;  for  he  perceives  a  weak  mul- 
titude making  hue  and  cry  the  moment  he  opens 
his  hand,  and  unlocses  one  of  the  truths  which  it  con- 
tains. 

Solitude  affords  us  an  opportunity  to  diminish 
the  number  of  our  passions  ;  for  out  of  a  multiplicity 
of  trifling  inclinations  she  forms  one  great  desire.  It 
is  certainly  possible,  that  Solitude  may  produce  dan- 
gerous effects  upon  the  passions  ;  but,  Providence  be 
thanked  !  it  may  also  produce  the  most  salutary  ef- 
fects. If  it  be  capable  of  disordering  the  mind,  it  is 
also  capable  of  effecting  the  cure.  It  draws  out  and 
separates  all  the  various  propensities  of  the  human 
heart  ;  but  it  collects  and  re-unites  them  all  into  one. 
Ves,  in  Solitude  we  feel  and  learn,  not  only  the  nature, 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART,  145 

but  the  extent  and  influence  of  all  tHe  passions,  v/hich 
rise  up  against  us  like  angry  waves,  and  endeavour  to 
overwhelm  us  in  the  abyss,  until  Philosophy  fiies 
to  our  aid,  and  dividt's  their  force.  If  we  do  not  yield 
an  easy  victory,  by  neglecting  all  opposition  to  their 
attacks  ;  Virtue  and  Self-denial  bring  gigantic  powers 
to  our  assistance,  that  will  melt  the  "  rocks  and  bend 
the  knotted  oak/'  In  short,  every  thing  is  possible 
to  Virtue  and  Resolution,  the  instant  we  learn 
tl:iat  one  passion  is  only  to  be  conquered  by  another. 

The  mind  feels  itself  proudly  dignified  by  that 
greatness  of  soul  wlu.:h  we  acquire  by  a  commerce 
with  ourselves,  and,  disdaining  every  ignoble  objectf 
withdraws  itself,  on  every  side,  from  corrupt  Society. 
A  virtuous  mind  observes  the  sons  of  worldly  pleasure 
precipitate  themselves  into  scenes  of  riot  and  de- 
bauchery, without  being  seduced.  In  vain  is  it  circu- 
Uted  on  every  side,  that  debauchery  is  the  earliest 
propensity  of  man,  especially  of  a  young  man,  who 
wishes  to  know  life  ;  in  vain  is  it  represented  as  ne- 
cessary to  form  connections  with  girls  of  the  tenderest 
youth,  as  it  is  to  eat  and  sleep  ;  no,  the  noble  mind 
feels  and  sees  that  debauchery  renders  youth  unmanly, 
insensible  to  the  charms  of  virtue,  and  callous  to  the 
principles  of  honesty  *;  that  it  destroys  all  resolution, 
inspu'es  timidity  and  pusillanimity  in  the  hour  of  dan- 
ger, and  prevents  them  from  underteJcing  any  great 
and  glorious  enterprize  ;  that  by  the  indulgence  of 
libertinism^  the  generous  warmth  and  fine  enthusiasm 
of  soul,  its  noble  fondness  for  the  sublin.e  aiul  beauti- 
ful—all its  powers  are  lost.  He,-  therefore,  who  re- 
tains a  wish  to  appear  great  and  honourable  in  the 
world,  must  renounce  forever  the  habits  of  indolence 
jyid  luxury.  The  momeni  he  ceases  to  injure  his 
faculties  by  debauchery,  and  discontinues  his  attem]>ts 
to  renovate  them  by  an  excess  of  vine  and  boxurious 
living,  he  v/ill  no  longer  feel  it  necessary  frequently 


146  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

to  take  the  air,  nor  to  consume  the  whole  day  on 
horseback. 

All  men  without  exception  have  something  cont*'n- 
ualiy  to  learn.  Whatever  may  be  the  distinguished 
rank  which  they  hold  in  Society,  they  can  never  be 
truly  great  but  by  their  personal  merit.  The  more 
the  faculties  of  the  mind  are  exercised  in  the  tranqui-f 
lity  of  retirement,  the  more  conspicuous  they  appear  ; 
and  should  the  pleasures  of  debauchery  be  the  ruling 
passion,  O  1  young  man  !  learn  that  nothing  will  so 
easily  subdue  it,  as  an  increasing  emulation  in  great 
and  \irtucus  actions,  a  hatred  of  idleness  and  frivolity, 
the  study  of  the  sciences,  a  frequent  communion  witH 
thy  own  heart,  and  that  high  and  dignified  spirit  which 
views  with  disdain  every  thing  that  is  vile  and  con- 
temptible. 

This  generous  pride  discovers  itself  with  dignity 
and  greatness  in  the  retreats  of  Solitude,  where  the 
passion  for  every  sublime  object  operates  with  greater 
freedom  than  m  any  other  situation.  The  same  pas- 
sion which  carried  Alexander  into  Asia,  confined 
Diogenes  to  his  tub.  Heraclitus  quitted  the 
throne  to  devote  himself  to  the  search  of  truth.  He 
who  wishes  to  render  his  studies  useful  to  mankind, 
must  first  have  made  his  observations  in  the  worId> 
without  dwelling  in  it  too  long,  or  quitting  it  v/ith  re- 
gret. The  world  enervates  the  mind,  and  destroys  its 
vigour.  C^sAR,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  tore 
himself  from  Cleopatr.a,  and  became  the  master  of 
the  empire  ;  but  Anthony  took  her  as  his  mistress, 
was  for  ever  in  her  arms,  and  by  his  effeminacy  lost 
both  his  life  and  the  world. 

Solitude,  it  is  true,  inspires  the  soul  with  high 
and  exalted  notions,  which  are  incompatible  with  the 
transactions  of  common  life.  But  a  lively,  ardent  pas- 
sion for  whatever  is  great,  points  out  to  the  solitary- 
man  the  possible  means  of  supporting  himself  on 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  147 

leights  which  would  turn  the  heads  of  worldly-minded 
men.  The  circumstances  which  accompany  Solitude, 
extend  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  influence  the  feelings 
of  the  heart,  and  place  the  man  so  much  above  the 
level  of  humanity,  that  he  feels  himself  immortal. 
To  observe  upon  the  life  of  a  man  of  the  world,  we 
should  say,  that  each  day  ought  to  be  the  last  of  his 
existence.  The  pleasures  of  Solitude  make  ample 
compensation  for  every  privation,  while  the  worldly- 
minded  man  thinks  all  happiness  is  at  an  end  if  he 
happens  to  miss  a  fa^vorite  diversion,  to  be  deprived  of 
attending  his  club,  or  is  disappointed  in  seeing  the 
celebrated  conjurer,  the  new  boxer,  or  the  wild 
beasts  just  arrived  from  a  strange  land,  which  the 
handbills  of  the  day  have  announced. 

I  never  recollect  without  feeling  the  warmest  emo- 
tions that  passage  where  Plutarch  says,  "  I  live 
*'  entirely  upon  history,  and  while  I  contemplate 
"  the  pictures  it  presents  to  my  view,  my  mind  enjoys 
"  a  rich  repast  from  the  representation  of  great  and 
"  virtuous  characters.  If  the  actions  of  men,  which 
*^  I  must  necessarily  look  into,  produce  some  in- 
"  stances  of  vice,  corruption  and  dishonesty,  I  en- 
<*  deavour,  nevertheless,  to  remove  the  impression,  or 
*'  to  defeat  its  effect.  My  mind  withdraws  itself  from 
"  the  scene,  and,  free  from  every  ignoble  passion,  I 
"  attach  myself  to  those  high  examples  of  virtue, 
"  which  are  so  agreeable  and  satisfactory,  and  which 
<^  accord  so  completely  with  the  genuine  feelings  of 
"  our  nature." 

The  soul,  attached  by  Solitude  to  these  sublime 
images,  forgets  every  object  that  would  attract  it  to- 
wards the  earth,  mounts  as  it  proceeds,  and  casts  the 
eye  of  disdain  on  those  links  which  would  chain  it  to 
the  world,  and  tend  to  intercept  or  weaken  its  flight. 
At  this  height,  the  faculties  and  inclinations  develope 
themselves.     Every  man  is,  perhaps,  capable  of  do- 


'£ 


lf4S  THR  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

iiig  much  more  than  he  performs  ;  and  for  this  rea- 
son, it  is  v/ise  and  glorious  to  attempt  every  atchieve- 
Tnent  that  does  not  appear  physically  impossible. 
How  many  dormant  ideas  may  be  awakened  ;  and 
then,  what  a  variety  of  early  impressions,  which  were 
seemingly  forgot,  revive,  and  present  themselves  to 
our  pens  !  We  may  always  accomplish  much  more 
than  we  conceive,  provided  passion  fans  the  fire  which 
imagination  has  lighted  ;  for  life  only  appears  insup- 
portable, when  it  is  no  longer  animated  by  the  soft 
affections  of  the  heart. 

A  state  of  existence  without  passion*  is,  in  Solitude 
as  well  as  in  every  other  situation  of  life,  the  death  of 
the  soul.  Disease  and  long-suffering,  after  I  had 
ceased  to  breathe  my  native  air,  occasionally  reduced 
me,  during  many  years,  to  this  horrible  condition* 
While  those  amongst  whom  1  lived,  and  who  were 
ignorant  of  my  real  situation,  thought  that  I  was  an- 
gry, and  expected  every  moment  that  I  should  seize 
the  lance  and  shield,  I  passed  quietly  on  my  way,  and 
resigned  myself  with  care  and  cordiality,  to  the  bene- 
ficent employments  of  my  profession.  While  the 
rage  against  me  w^as  general,  I  remained  perfectly 
insensible,  and  preserved  an  inviolable  silence.  The 
languors  of  sickness,  the  tortures  of  a  woanded  heart, 
the  oppression  of  domestic  misfortunes,  had  vanquish- 
ed my  mind,  and  rendered  it  msensible  to  every  other 
concern.  My  brain  continued  for  several  years  as  ob- 
durate as  marble  ;  I  passed  many  hours,  day  after 
day,  without  a  thought  ;  I  frequently  uttered  the  di- 

*  "  The  force  of  the  passions,"  says  a  great  philoso- 
pher, "  can  alone  counterbalance,  in  the  humnn  mind, 
'*  the  effects  of  indolence  and  inactivity  ;  steal  us  from 
^'  that  repose  and  stupidity  towards  which  we  incessantly 
•'  gravitate,  and  at  length' endow  the  mind  with  that  con- 
"  tinuity  ot  attention  to  which  superiority  of  talent  is 
<'  iittiiched." 


I« 


ox  "I'PIS    MiKQ    AND    THE    HEAHT.  14$ 

:ct  contrary  to  \yhat  I  meant  ;  I  could  scai'cely  take 
Siiy  noariohincnt  ;  I  could  derive  no  support  from 
that  which  strcni^thens  others  ;  I  expected,  every 
step  I  took,  to  fall  to  the  ground  ;  and  I  sufTered  all  the 
punishments  of  hell,  whenever  I  sat  down  v/ith  an  in- 
tention to  write.  Tlie  world  contained  nothing  that 
ould  interest  nie,  except  only  the  secret  object  of  my 

.uig-rin,  which  I  kept  closely  locked  within  aiybleed*- 


g  heart. 

The  passions  have  no  existence  until  the  moment 
the    corporeal  organs   become    capable  of  huhdging 
those  dispositions  which  are   ])reviously  im])lanted  in 
the  breast.     The  soul,  therefore,  which  ought  to  be 
kept   in  a  state  of  constant  exercise,  acting  only  by 
means  of  these  organs,  it  is  necessary  that  their  ope- 
rations should  not  be  obstructed  ;  for  the  soul,  both  in 
the  tranquility  of-  Solitude,  and  in  the  study  of  the 
world,    can    never  become  active   and   enterprizing, 
•while  it  is  impeded  by  these  subaltern  agents.     Why 
is  it  not  always  in  our  power  to  live  in  Solitude,  and 
according  to  our  inclinations,  since  it  is  certain  that 
Solitude  afibrds  happiness  to  the  heart  in  every  period 
of  our  lives,  and  leads  the  mind  to  the  fertile  sources 
of  every  great  conception  ?  How  passionately  fond  of 
Solitude  would  every  noble-minded  youth  become,  if 
he  were  capable  of  perceiving  the  variety  of  grand  ' 
ideas,  sublime  sentiments,  and  profound  knowledge, 
which  he  might  there  acquire  in  the  earliest  periods 
of  his  infancy  1  A  wise  old  age  fmds  its  happiest  days 
in  the  retreats  of  Solitude.     The  mind  there  thinks 
with  greater  dignity  than  in  the  world.     In  the  tran- 
quility of  retirement,  we  see  how  every  thing  ought  to 
be  conducted  ;  while  in   society,  we  see  how  things 
are  carried  on.     Uninterrupted  reflection  and  profound 
thought  inspire  tlie  greatest  works  which  the  human 
mind  is  capable  of  producing  ;  while  in  society,  the 
intellectual  spirit  evaporates  by  its  contiimal  attention 
N     2 


160  THii  INFLVEKCE    OT    SOLITUDE 

to  trifling  objects.  Solitude,  on  the  contrary,  n:iuit 
possess  a  very  powerful  charm,  since  so  many  men 
forget  in  retirement  all  the  cares  of  life, ,  and  learn  to 
despise  every  thing  that  belongs  to  earth  ;  they  suffer 
their  lands  to  lie  fallow,  abandon  their  crops  to  weeds, 
or  leave  them  a  prey  to  the  beasts  of  the  field. 

When  the  mind  is  filled  witij  an  enthusiasm  for 
great  atchievements,  it  loses,  in  general,  all  conside- 
ration for  trifling  objects.  This  is  the  reason  why,  in 
conducting  hi.tle  concerns,  common  sense*  is  much 
more  useful  than  genius.  The  ordinary  occupations 
cf  lifci  de<-.troy  the  enthusiasm  of  genius,  which  nothing 
will  so  effectually  restore  as  Solitude,  liesurc,  and  li- 
berty. Theplnlosophical  observer  and  profound  wri- 
ter, therefore,  h^ave  no  other  resource,  when  they  are 
surrounded  and  ei-iCumhered  by  a  multiplicity  of  af- 
fairs, Ivlisundjrstood  and  ridiculed,  their  souls  sicken 
\mder  the  general  pressure,  and  become  almost  ex- 
tinct ;  for  what  inducement  can  there  be  to  write  a 
great  and  distinguished  work,  when  the  author  is  pre- 
viously convinced  that  every  one  will  endeavour  to 
turn  it  into  ridicule  the  moment  they  learn  from  whose 
pen  it  was  produced  ?  The  desire  of  fame  dies,  where 
merit  is  no  longer  rewarded  by  praise.  But  remove 
such  a  writer  or  philosopher  from  the  multitude  ; 
t\ive  tliem  liberty^  leisure,  pens,  ink,  and  paper,  and 
they  are  revenged  ;  for  they  will  then  produce  writ- 
ings which  whole  nations  v/ill  be  eager  to  read.  A 
great  variety  of  men,  wlio  possess  extraordinary  tal- 
ents, remain  undistinguished,  only  because  their  minds 

*  ''  A  man  of  Common  Sense,''  says  Helvetius,  "  is 
'^  a  man  in  whose  character  indolence  predominates.  He 
**  is  not  endowed  with  that  activity  of  soul  which,  in  high 
*'  stations,  leads  great  minds  to  discover  new  springs  by 
**  which  they  may  set  the  world  in  motion,  or  to  sow 
**  those  seeds,  from  the  growth  of  which  they  are  enabled 
*^  to  produce  future  events," 


^^^^^ON 


ON  THE    MIND    AKD    THE    HEART.  151 

languish  under  employments  which  do  not  require  the 
aid  of  thought,  and  which,  for  that  reason,  are  much 
better  suited  to  the  ignorant  vulgar,  than  to  the  refin- 
ed philosopher. 

Solitude  restores  every  thing  to  its  proper  place  ; 
there  the  mind  rejoices  in  being  able  to  think,  in  being 
enabled  to  derive  pleasures  from  pursuits  which  other 
men  dislike,  and,  of  course,  in  being  able  to  appro- 
priate so  much  time  to  itself.  The  hatred  which  is 
generally  entertained  against  solitary  men,  frequently 
proves  a  source  of  enviable  happiness.  Indeed,  it 
would  be  a  great  misfortune  to  him  who  is  meditating 
in  tranquility  the  execution  of  some  excellent  work, 
if  he  were  universally  beloved  :  for  every  one  would 
then  be  anxious  to  visit  him  ;  he  would  be  pestered 
with  invitations  to  dinner  ;  and  the  first  question  in  all 
companies  would  be,  "  Will  he  come  ?"  Happily, 
however,  Philosophers  are  not  the  characters  most 
distinguished  and  beloved  by  the  world ;  and  they  have 
the  pleasure  of  reflecting,  that  the  public  hatred  is  ne- 
ver universally  excited  against  an  ordinary  man.  Ac- 
knowledge, then,  that  there  is  something  great  in  that 
man  against  whom  all  exclaim,  at  whom  every  one 
throws  a  stone,  to  whose  conduct  all  impute  a  thou- 
sand absurdities,  and  on  whose  character  all  attempt 
to  affix  a  thousand  crimes  without  being  able  to  prove 
one.  The  fate  of  a  man  of  genius,  who  lives  retired 
and  unknown,  is  still  more  enviable  :  he  may  then  re- 
main quiet  and  alone  ;  and  as  it  will  appear  natural  to 
him  that  his  sentiments  should  not  be  understood,  he 
will  not  be  surprised  if  the  vulgar  should  condemn 
■whatever  he  writes,  and  all  he  says,  or  that  the  efforts 
of  his  friends  to  correct  the  judgement  of  the  publick 
with  respect  to  his  merit,  should  prove  useless. 

Such  was,  with  respect  to  the  multitude,  the  fate 
of  the  Count  Schaumbourg-Lippe,  better  known  by 
the  title  of  the  Count  de  BucKEBoyPvO.    Of  all  the 


1*62  THE  IKFLUE^CE    O?    SOLlTUBE 

German  authors,  I  never  new  one  whose  writings 
were  more  ridiculed  or  so  littic  iinderslood  ;  and  yet 
his  name  was  worthy  of  bv^ing;  ranked  among  the 
greatest  characters  which  his  countt  y  produced.  I 
became  acquainted  with  him  at  a  time  wlien  he  lived 
almost  continually  in  Sohtude,  and  retired  from  the 
world,  managing  hi^i  small  estate  with  great  discre- 
tion. There  was,  indeed,  it  must  be  confessed, 
something  in  his  manner  and  appearance,  which,  at 
first  sight,  created  disgust,  and  prevented  you  from 
paying  a  proper  attention  to  the  excellent  qualities  of 
mind. 

The  Count  de  Lacy,  formerly  Ambassador  from 
Siiam  to  Pctcrsburgh^  informed  me  at  Hanover,  that 
he  led  the  Spanish  army  against  the  Portuguese,  at 
the  time  they  vvere  conrnianded  by  the  Count  de 
BucKEBouRG  ;  the  singularity  of  wliose  person  and 
maimers  so  forcibly  struck  the  minds  of  all  the  Spanish 
genera's,  while  they  were  reconnoitering  the  enemy 
with  their  telescopes,  that  they  excdaimed  with  one 
voice,  ''  Are  the  Portuguese  commanded  by  Don 
Quixote  ?"  The  Ambassa«lor,  however,  who  pos- 
sessed a  very  liberal  mind,  spoke  with  enthusiastic 
rapture  of  the  good  conduct  of  Buckebourg  in  Por- 
tugal, and  praised,  in  the  warmest  terms,  the  excel- 
lence of  his  mind,  and  the  greatness  of  his  character. 
His  heroic  countenance,  his  flowing  hair,  his  tall  and 
meagre  figure,  and  above  all  the  extraordinary  length  of 
his  visage,  miglit  in  truth  bring  back  the  recollection  of 
the  Knight  of  La  Mancha  ;  for  certain  it  is,  that, 
at  a  distance,  he  made  a  most  romantic  appearance  : 
on  a  nearer  approach,  however,  a  closer  view  imme- 
diately convinced  you  of  the  contrary.  The  fire  and 
animation  of  his  features  announced  the  elevation, 
sagacity,  penetration,  kindness,  virtue,  and  serenity 
of  his  souL    Sublime  sentiments  and  heroic  thoughte 


b 


ON  THE    MIND    AKD    THE    HEART.  \5l 


were  as  familiar  and  natural  to  his  mind,  as  they  were 
to  the  noblest  characters  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

The  Count  was  born  in  London,  and  his  conduct 
was  without  doubt  whimsical  and  extraordinary.  The 
anecdotes  related  to  me  by  a  German  Prince  (a  rela- 
tion of  Count  Guillaume)  concerning  him,  are, 
perhaps,  not  generally  known.  He  was  fond  of  con- 
tending with  tlie  English  in  every  thing.  For  in- 
stance, he  laid  a  wager,  that  he  would  ride  a  horse 
from  London  to  Edinburgh  backM^ards,  that  is,  with 
the  horses  head  turned  towards  Edinbur^di,  and  the 
Count's  face  towards  London  ;  and  in  this  manner,  he 
actually  rode  through  several  counties  in  England. 
He  not  only  traversed  the  greatest  part  of  that  king- 
dom on  foot,  but  travelled  in  company  with  a  German 
prince  through  several  counties,  in  the  character  of  a 
beggar.  Being  informed,  that  part  of  the  Danube 
above  Regensberg,  was  so  strong  and  rapid  that  no 
one  had  ever  dared  to  swim  across  it,  he  made  the  at- 
tempt, and  swam  so  far,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he 
saved  his  life.  A  great  statesman  and  profound  phi- 
losopher, related  to  me  at  Hanover,  that,  during  the 
war  in  which  the  Count  commanded  the  artillery  in 
the  army  of  Prince  Ferdinand  of  Brunswick  against 
the  French,  he  one  day  invited  several  Planoverian  of- 
ficers to  dine  with  him  in  his  tent.  Wlien  the  com- 
pany were  in  high  spirits,  and  full  of  gaiety,  several 
cannon  balls  flew  in  different  directions  about  the  tent. 
<'  The  French,"  exclaimed  the  officers,  "  cannot  be 
«  far  off."  "  No,  no,"  replied  tlie  Count,  "  the 
«  enemy,  I  assure  you,  are  at  a  great  distance  ;"  and 
he  desired  them  to  keep  their  seats.  The  fii  ing  soon 
afterwards  re-commenced  ;  when  one  of  the  bails  car- 
rying away  the  top  of  the  tent,  the  officers  rose  sud- 
denly from  their  chairs,  exclaiming,  "  The  French 
*^  are  here."—"  No,"  replied  the  Count,  "  the  French 
'•'.are  not  here  ;  and  therefore.  Gentlemen,  I  desire 


154  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

<'  yoxi  will  again  sit  down,  and  rely  upon  my  word.* 
The  balls  continued  to  ily  about  ;  the  officers,  l)owe 
ver,  continued  to  eat  and  drink  without  apprehension 
though  not  without  whispering  their  conjectures  t< 
each  other  upon  the  singularity  of  their  entertainment 
The  Count  at  length  rose  from  the  table,  and,  ad 
dressing  himself  to  the  company,  said,  "  Gentlemen 
"  I  was  wililng  to  convince  you  how  well  I  can  rel; 
^'  upon  the  officers  of  my  artillery  ;  for  I  orderei 
'^  them  to  fire,  during  the  time  we  continued  at  din 
"  ner,  at  the  pinnacle  of  the  tent  ;  and  they  have  ex 
"  ecuted  my  orders  with  great  punctuality," 

Reflecting  minds  will  not  be  unthankful  for  thes 
traits  of  the  character  of  a  man,  anxious  to  exercis 
himself,  and  those  under  his  command,  in  ever 
thing  that  appeared  difficult  or  enterprizmg.  Beini 
one  day  in  company  with  the  Count,  by  the  side  of 
magazine  of  gunpowder  which  he  had  made  under  hi 
bed-chamber,  in  Fort  Wilhelmstein,  I  observei 
to  him,  that  "  I  should  not  sleep  very  contentedl; 
*'  there,  during  some  of  the  hot  nights  of  summer.' 
The  Count,  however,  convinced  me,  though  I  do  no 
now  recollect  how,  that  the  greatest  danger  and  ni 
danger  is  one  and  the  same  thing.  When  I  first  sa\' 
this  extraordinary  man,  which  v/as  in  the  company  o 
an  English  and  a  Portuguese  officer,  he  entertainei 
me  for  two  hours  v;ith  a  discourse  upon  the  physiolog; 
of  HAff.LER,  whose  works  he  knew  by  heart.  Th 
ensuing  morning,  he  insisted  on  my  accompany ini 
him  in  a  little  boat,  which  he  rowed  himself^  to  Foh' 
WiLHiiLMSTEiN,  which,  from  plans  he  shewed  rn< 
of  his  own  drawing,  he  had  constructed  in  the  middle 
of  the  water,  where  not  a  foot  of  land  was  to  be  seen 
One  Sunday,  upon  the  great  parade  at  Pyrmont 
surrounded  by  many  thousand  men,  who  were  occu 
pied  in  dress,  dancing,  and  making  love,  he  enter 
tttined  me  on  the  very  spot  during  the  course  of  tw< 


iTOurs,  andv 


THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  155 


ours,  and  with  as  much  tranquility  as  if  we  had  been 
alone,  by  detailing  all  the  arguments  that  have  beeii 
used  to  prove  the  existence  of  a  God,  pointing  out 
their  defective  parts,  and  convincing  me  that  he  could 
surpass  them  all.  To  prevent  my  escape  from  this 
lesson,  he  held  me  fast  all  the  time  by  the  button  of 
my  coat.  He  shev/ed  me,  at  his  seat  at  Bucke- 
BoyiiG,  a  large  folio  volume,  in  his  own  hand-writing, 
"  On  the  Art  of  defending  a  small  Town  against  a 
"  great  Power."  The  work  was  complettly  iinishf 
ed,  and  designed  as  a  present  to  the  king  of  Portugal  ; 
but  he  did  me  the  favour  to  read  many  passages  res^ 
pecting  the  security  of  Swissehland.  The  c«unt 
considered  the  Swiss  invincible  ;  and  pointed  out  to 
me,  not  only  all  the  important  parts  which  they  might 
occupy  against  an  enemy,  but  shewed  me  roads  v/hich 
a  CAT  would  scarcely  be  able  to  crawl  through,  I  do 
not  beueve  that  any  thing  was  ever  written,  of  higher 
importance  to  the  interests  of  any  country  than  this 
work  ;  for  the  manuscript  contains  striking  answers  to 
all  the  objections  that  a  Swiss  himself  could  make. 
My  friend,  M.  Moyles  Mendelsohm,  to  whom  the 
Count  had  read  the  preface  to  this  work  at  Pyrmont, 
cpnsidered  it  as  a  master-piece,  both  for  its  correct 
language  and  fine  philosophy  ;  for  the  Count  could 
write  the  French  language,  with  almost  the  same  ease, 
elegance,  and  purity,  as  Voltaire  ;  while  in  the 
German,  he  was  laboured,  perplexed,  and  diiluse. 
What  adds  to  his  praise,  is,  that  upon  his  return  to 
Portugal,  he  had  with  him,  for  many  years,  two  ©f 
the  most  acute  masters  of  Germany  ;  first  Abbt,  and 
afterwards  Herder.  Those  who  see  wich  more  pen- 
etrating eyes  than  mine,  and  have  had  more  opportu- 
nities to  make  observations,  are  able  to  relate  a  variety 
of  remarkable  anecdotes  concerning  this  truly  great 
and  extraordinary  man.  I  shall  only  add  one  obser- 
i  yation  more  respecting  his  character,  availing  myself 


156  THE    INFLUENCE  OF    SOLITUDE 

of  the  words  of  Shakespeahe  :  the  Count  Guil- 
LAUME  DE  ScHAUMBERG  LiPPE  CciiTies  iio  dagger  I 

"  He  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look'' — 

*' but  he's  not  dangerous  ; 

« /le  reads  jjiuch  ; 

"  He  is  a  great  observer  ;  tind  he  looks 

*'  Quite  thro'  the  deeds  of  men.    He  loves  no  plays  ; 

« . — : — /it  hears  no  musick  ; 

"  Seldom  he  sjniles^  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort^ 
"  As  if  he  mock'd  himself  arid  scorned  his  spirit 
^*  That  could  be  moved  to  smile  at  any  thing,^' 

JULIUS  CiESAR, -ACT    i,  SCENE  4. 

Such  was  the  character,  always  mlsuiKlerstood,  ol 
this  solitary  man.  A  character  gf  this  description 
may  well  smile,  when  he  perceives, himself  scoffed  at 
by  the  world  ;  but  what  must  be. the  shame  and  con- 
fusion of  those  partial"  judges,  when  they  shall  behold 
the  monument  which  the  great  Mendelsohm  has 
erected  to  his  memory  ;  or  the  judicious  history  of 
his  life,  which  a  young  author  is  about  to  publish,  at 
Hanover-^the  profound  sentiments,  the  noble  style, 
the  truth  and  sincerity  of  whicli,  will  be  discovered 
and  acknowledged  by  impartial  posterity. 

The  men  who  laugh  (as  I  have  seen  them.  laugh  a 
thousand  times)  at  Buckebourg,  on  account  of  his 
long  visage,  his  flowing  hair,  his  great  hat  and  little 
$word,  may  very  well  indulge  their  smiles  of  scorn,  if, 
like  the  Count,  they  are  philosophers  and  heroes.  The 
Count  de  Buckebourg,  however,  never  smiled  at  the 
world  or  upon  men  but  with  Idndness.  Without  ba- 
red, without  misanthropy,  he  enjoyed  the  tranquility 
of  his  country  house,  situated  in  tl  e  bosom  of  a  thick 
forest,  frequently  alone,  or  with  the  viituous  woman 
woman  whom  he  had  chosen  for  his  wife  ;  and  for 
whom,  while  living,  he  did  not  appear  to  entertain  any- 
extraordinary  fondness  ;  buf  when  she  died,  his 
affection  for  her  was  so  great,  tliat  the  loss  of  hef 
brought  him  almost  to  the  grave* 


ON  THE    MIKD    AND    THE    HEART.  157 

It  was  thus  that  the  people  laughed  at  Themisto- 
€LES,  in  Athens.  They  reviled  him,  openly,  as  he 
passed  along  the  streets,  because  he  did  not  possess 
the  manners  of  the  world,  the  ton  of  good  company, 
and  was  ignorant  of  that  accomplishment  which  was 
called  genteel  breeding : — one  day,  however,  he  retort- 
ed upon  these  railers  with  the  keenest  asperity.  ^'  It 
"  is  true,"  said  he,  "  I  never  learned  how  to  tune  a 
"  lyre,  or  play  upon  a  lute  ;  but  1  know  how  to  raise 
•"  a  small  and  inconsiderable  city  to  glory  and  great- 
«  ness."    ^ 

Solitude  and  philosophy,  therefore,  although  they 
.may  inspire  sentiments  at  whicli  the  world  will  laugh, 
banish  every   mean  and  sordid  idea  from  the   mind, 
and  prepare  the  way  for  the  grandest  ar»d  most  sub- 
lime conceptions.      He  who  is  accustomed  to  study 
the  characters  of  great  men,  and  tv-^  admire  elevated 
sentiments,  will,  almost  imperceptibly,  adopt  a  roman- 
^tick  style  vof  thinking,  which  may  frequently  aitord  an 
ample  subject  to  laughter.     The  romantick  mind  al- 
ways views  thin?!?;s  differently  from  v/hat  ;Jiey  are  or 
ever  can  be  ;  and  a  constant  habit  of  contemplating 
the  sublime  and  beautiful,  renders  such  characters,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  weak  and  wicked,  ridiculous  arid  in- 
supportable.    IMen  of  this  turn  of  mind  always  disco- 
ver a  nobleness  of  soul  which  frequently  oiTend*.  the 
fashionable  world  ;  but  it  is  not,  en  that  account,  less 
fioble.     The  philosophers  of  India,  annually  quitted 
_ their  solitude,  to  visit  the  palace  of  the  king  ;  when 
each  of  them,  in  his  turn,  delivered  his  advice  upon  the 
^'overnment  of  the  state,  ^nd  upon  thecha'.iges  and  li- 
mitations which  might  be  made  in  the  laws.    He  who 
three  successive  times  communicated  false  or  unim.-; 
poriant  observations,  lost,  for  one  year,  the  privilege 
of  spcakilig  in  the  presence  of  the  sovereign.    There 
are  many  other  romantick  pliilosophers,  who  would 
require  much  more,  hut  would  do  nothing.     Flot'I" 

o 


158  TRE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

NU5  requested  the  Eniperour  Gjljenus  to  confer  up- 
on him  the  sovereignty  of  a  small  city  in  Campania, 
and  the  lands  appSnd^.nt  to  it.  The  city  was  to  be 
called  Fhao7io/iolis  ;  for  PioriNus  liad  promibcd  to 
reside  there,  with  his  friends,  and  realize  'the  repubiick 
of  Flat'o.  But  it  happened  then,  as  it  frequently 
happens  now,  in  many  courts,  to  philosophers  muck 
less  chimerical  than  FLCtiNi/s- — the  com  tiers  laugh- 
ai  the  proposal ;  and  told  the  Emperour  that  the  phi- 
losopher was  a  fool,  whose  mind  experience  could  not 
reform. 

The  picture  of  the  greatness  and  virtue  of  the  an- 
cients produces,  in  Solitude,  the  happiest  infiuence 
upon  minds  susceptible  of  tliose  ideas  and  sentiments,. 
Sparks  of  that  bright  flame  which  warmed,  the  bosom$ 
of  the  great  and  good,  sometimes  operate  the  most 
unexpected  eiTects.  To  cheer  the  drooping  spirits  of 
a  lady  in  the  country,  whose  health  was  impaired  by  a 
nei'vous  affection,  I  advised  her  to  read,  very  frequent- 
ly, the  history  of  the  Greek  aBd  Roman  empires.— 
At  the  expiration  of  three  months,  she  VvTote  to  me, 
^''  With  what  veneration  for  antiquity  have  you  inspir- 
"  cd  my  mind  !  What  are  the  buzzing  race  of  the 
^^  present  age,  when  compared  with  those  noble  char- 
^'  acters  1  History,  heretofore,  was  not  my  favourite 
"  study  ;  now,  I  live  only  on  its  pages.  I  feel,  during 
"  the  progress  of  my  study,  the  strongest  inclination 
"  to  become  acquainted  v.  ith  all  the  transactions  of 
"  Greece  and  Rome.  It  has  opened  to  me  an  inex-^ 
*•  haustible  source  of  pleasure  and  health.  I  could 
*'  not  have  believed  that  my  library  contained  so  ines- 
"  timable  a  treasure  ;  it  will  become  dearer  to  me 
"  than  any  thing  I  inherit.  In  the  course  of  six  months 
"  you  will  no  longer  be  troubled  with  my  complaints. 
,  "  My  FLufARCH  has  already  become  more  valuable 
"  to  me  than  ail  the  triumphs  of  coquetry  ;  or  all  that 
"  sentimental  writings  addressed  to  ladies  in  the  coun- 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  159 

«  try,  who  are  inclined  to  be  all  heart,  and  with  %vhom 
<'  Satan  plays  tricks  of  love  with  the  same  address  as 
<«  a  diUetante  plays  tricks  of  musick  on  the  violin." — ► 
'  This  lady,  who,  I  confess,  is  learned,  gives  me  fur- 
ther information  respecting-  the  conduct  of  her  kitch- 
en and  the  management  of  her  poultry  yard  ;  but  she 
has  recovered  her  health,  and  I  think  she  will,  hereaf- 
ter, find  as  much  pleasure  in  house-keepin<^  and  feed- 
ing her  chickens  as  she  did  formerly  from  the  pages 
of  Plutarch, 

The  history  of  the  grandeur  and  virtue  of  the  an- 
cients cannot  operate,  for  any  length  of  time,  except  in 
the  tranquility  of  retn-ement,  or  among  a  small  circle 
of  men  ;  but  it  may  produce,  in  the  event,  the  happi- 
est effects.  The  mind  of  a  man  of  genius  is,  during 
his  solitary  walks,  filled  v/ith  a  crowd  of  ideas  which 
appear  ridiculou^s  to  his  fellow-citizens  ;  but  the  peri- 
od will  arrive  when  they  \y\\\  lead  millions  to  perform 
actions  worthy  of  immortality.  The  Sv/iss  songs, 
composed  by  Lava^er^  appeared  at  a  time  unfavour- 
able to  their  reception,  and  when  the  republick  was  in 
a  declining  slate.  The  Swiss  society  of  Schintzaach^ 
who  had  prevailed  upon  that  ardent  genius  to  compose 
those  songs,  oITended  the  French  ambassador ;  and^ 
from  that  time,  the  society  was  exclaimed  against, 
from  every  corner  of  the  kingdom.  The  great  FIal- 
LER.  himself,  pointed  his  epigrams  against  the  mem- 
bers, in  every  letter  which  I  received  from  him  ;  for 
they  had  long  refused  to  admit  him  into  the  society. 
He  considered  us  as  enemies  to  orthodoxy,  and  as  dis- 
ciples ol  Jean  Jacques  JRosseau^  a  man  hateful  toliis 
eyes.  The  President  of  the  Committee  for  the  refor- 
mation of  Literature,  defended,  at  Zurich,  the  Swiss 
songs  of  LAVAfER^  from  the  excellent  motive,  that  it 
was  not  proper  to  stir  up  the  old  dung-hilL  No  poet 
of  Greece,  however,  wrote  with  more  fire  and  force  in 
fevour  of  his  country,  than  Lava'Ter  did  for  the  ii^ter- 


160  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

ests  of  Swisserland.  I  have  lieard  children  chant 
these  songs  with  patrotick  enthusiasm  ;  and  seen  the 
finest  eyes  filled  with  tears,  while  their  ears  listened 
to  the  singer.  Rapture  glowed  in  the  breasts  of  the 
Swiss  peasants  to  whom  they  were  sung  ;  their  mus- 
cles swelled,  the  blood  inflamed  their  cheeks.  Fath- 
ers, with  whom  I  am  acquainted,  have  carried  their 
infant  children  to  the  chapel  of  William  Tell^  to 
sing,  in  full  chorus,  the  song  which  Lavai'er  wrote 
upon  the  merits  of  that  great  man.  I  have  made  the 
rocks  re-echo  to  my  voice,  by  singing  these  songs  to 
the  musick  which  my  heart  composed  for  them,  in 
the  fields,  and  upon  those  celebrated  mountains  where 
these  heroes,  the  ancestors  of  our  race,  signalized 
themselves  by  their  immortal  valour.  I  thought  my- 
self encompassed  by  their  venerable  shades.  I  fanci- 
ed \\\dX  I  saw  them  still,  armed  with  their  knotted 
clubs,  breaking  to  pieces  the  crowned  helmets  of  Ger- 
iuany  ;  and,  although  inferior  in  numbers,  forcing  the 
proud  nobility  to  seek  their  safety  by  a  precipitate  and 
ignominious  flight. 

This,  I  shall,  perhaps,  be  told,  is  roraantick  !  for 
romantick  ideas  can  only  please  solitary  and  recluse 
men,  who  always  see  objects  in  a  different  poiiit  of 
yiew  from  the  multitude  around  them.  Great  ideas, 
hov/ever,  sometimes  penetrate,  in  spite  of  the  most 
obstinate  resistance.  In  republicks,  they  operate  in- 
sensilily,  and  inspire  elevated  sentiments,  which  ma:y 
become  extensively  useful  in  times  of  trouble  and 
commotion. 

Every  thing  unites,  in  Solitude,  to  -raise  the  soul 
and  fortify  the  human  character  ;  because  the  mind 
there  habituates  itself,  much  better  than  in  the  world, 
to  noble  sentiments  and  heroick  resolutions.  The  sol- 
itary man  possesses  a  charm  against  all  the  shafts  of 
stupidity,  envy,  and  wickedness.  Resolved  to  think 
and  to  act,  upon  every  occasion,  in  opposition  to  tb© 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAHT.  161 

sentiments  of  narrow  minds,  he  attends  to  all  the  con- 
trarieties he  meets  with,  but  is  astonished  at  none.— • 
Entertaining  a  just  and  rational  esteem  for  friends, 
but  sensible,  also,  that  they,  like  enemies,  generally 
indulge  their  feelings  to  excess,  that  all  of  them  are 
partial,  and  inclined  to  form  too  favourable  a  judge- 
ment ;  he  appeals,  therefore,  to  the  judgement  of  the 
publick  :  not,  indeed,  to  the  publick  of  his  ovvn  city, 
who  always  consider  the  fierscn  and  not  the  thhig^  in 
controversy  ;  who  never  decide  until  they  have  heard 
the  opinions  of  two  or  three  beaux  esfirits  ;  but  he  ap- 
peals to  the  world  at  large,  at  whose  impai'tial  tribu- 
nal he  appears,  and,  with  his  works  in  his  hand,  dd^ 
rnands  the  justice  that  is  due. 

But  it  is  commonly  thought  that  Solitude,  by  ele- 
vating the  sentiments,  renders  the  mind  unfit  for 
business  :  this,  however,  I  do  not  believe.  It  must 
ever  be  highly  beneficial  to  raise  the  soul  by  the  ad- 
Vantages  of  retirement,  and  to  exercise  the  mind  in 
Solitude,  in  such  a  manner  as  will  prevent  our  totter- 
ing so  frequently  in  tho  world,  and  give  us  full  pos- 
session of  it  in  all  the  events  of  publick  life.  The  love 
of  truth  is  preserved  by  Solitude,  and  virtue  there  ac- 
quires a  greater  firmness  ;  although  I  acknowledge 
that  in  business,  it  is  not  needful  always  to  tell  the 
truth,  and  that  a  rigid  virtue  frequently  miscarries  in 
the  affairs  of  life. 

The  virtue  and  simplicity  of  manners  which  Soli- 
tude produces,  are  revered  by  the  great  and  good  of 
every  clime.  It  was  these  mestimable  qualities 
which,  during  the  highest  fury  of  the  war  betweea 
England  and  France,  obtained  the  philosophick  Jea^t 
jIndre  7)e  Luc,  the  reception  he  met  with  at  the 
court  of  Versailles,  and  inspired  the  breast  of  the  vir- 
tuous, the  immortal  De  Vergennes  with  the  desire 
to  reform,  by  means  of  a  philosopher,  the  heads  of  the 
citizens  of  Geneva^  which  he,  with  all  the  power  of 

o  a 


152  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

the  Prime-Minister  of  France,  had  not  been  able  to 
effect.  De  Luc^  at  the  request  of  the  mhiister,  made 
the  attempt,  but  failed  of  success  ;  and  France,  as  it 
is  well  known,  was  obliged  to  send  an  army  to  reclaim 
the  Genevese,  It  was  upon  his  favourite  mountains, 
that  the  philosopher  Jean  ^Indre  De  Luc  acquired 
that  simplicity  of  manners  which  he  still  preserve^ 
amidst  all  the  luxury  of  London,  where  he  endures 
with  firmness  all  the  wants,  refuses  all  the  indulgen- 
cies,  and  subdues  all  the  desires  of  social  life.  At 
Hanover,  I  could  only  remark  one  single  instance  of 
luxury  in  which  he  indulged  himself ;  when  any 
thing  vexed  his  mind,  he  chewed  a  little  morsel  of  su- 
gar, and,  of  course,  always  carried  a  small  supply  of 
it  in  his  pocket. 

Solitude  not  q^ily  creates  simplicity  of  manners,  but 
prepares  and  strengthens  the  faculties  for  the  toils  of 
busy  life.  Fostered  in  the  bosom  of  retirement,  the 
mind  feels  a  greater  degree  of  activity  when  it  engages 
in  the  transactions  of  the  world,  and  retires  again  into 
tranquility  to  repose  itself,  and  prepare  for  a  new  con- 
flict. FERicLES<t  Phocion^  Epaminondas^  laid  the 
foundation  of  all  their  greatness  in  Solitude:  they 
there  acquired  that  style  which  is  not  to  be  learned  in 
the  forum  of  the  university— the  style  of  their  future 
lives  and  actions.  When  the  mind  o{  Pericles  was 
occupied  by  important  objects,  he  never  appeared  in 
the  streets,  except  to  transact  his  business,  and.  in- 
stantly renounced  feastmgs,  publick  assemblies,  and 
every  other  pleasure  of  the  kind.  While  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  air&irs  of  the  republick  was  in  his  hands, 
he  only  went  once  to  sup  with  a  friend,  and  came 
away  very  soon.  P/foc/02/ immediately  resigned  him- 
self to  the  study  of  philosophy,  not  from  the  ostenta* 
tlotis  motive  of  being  called  a  wise  man,  but  to  place 
Mmself  in  a  eonditicn  to  conduct  the  business  of  th« 


©N  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  163 

state  with  greater  resolution  and  effect*.  The  people 
were  astonished,  and  enc^uired  of  e^ch  other  when 
and  b^^what  means  Epaminondjs,  after  having  pass^ed 
his  whole  life  in  study,  had  not  only  learned,  but  as  it 
vere  all  at  once  exercised,  the  military  ait  in  its  high- 
est perfection.  He  was  frugal  of  his  time,  devoted 
his  mind  entirely  to  the  delights  of  literature,  and, 
desiring  nothing  so  much  as  to  be  exen  pt  from  busi- 
ness, withdrew  himself  from  every  public  employment. 
His  country  forced  him  from  the  retreats  of  Solitude, 
gave  him  the  command  of  the  army,  and  he  saved 
the  repubUck. 

A  cliaracter  upon  which  I  never  reflect  but  with 
the  highest  transports,  the  character  of  FeTharch^ 
was  formed  entirely  in  Solitude,  and  was  by  that 
means  rendered  capable  of  transacting  the  most  com- 
plicated political  affairs.  Petrarch  -w^^^  without 
doubt,  sometimes,  what  persons  very  freqtiently  be- 
come in  Solitude,  choleric,  satirical,  and  petulant. 
He  has  been  reproached  with  great  severity,  for  th& 
lively  pictures  he  has  drawn  of  the  manners  of  his 
age,  and  particularly  for  his  portrait  of  the  scenes  of 
infamy  which  were  transacted  at  Avignon,  under  the 
reign  of  Pope  Clement  t'he  Sixth.  But  FEfRARca 
was  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  human  heart,  knew 
how  to  manage  the  passions  with  uncommon  dexteri- 
ty, and  to  conduct  them  directly  to  his  purpose.  The 
Abbe  de  Sades^  the  best  historian  of  his  life,  says, 
"  Petrarch  was  scarcely  known  except  as  a  tender 
"  and  elegant  poet,  who  loved  with  unextinguishable 
"  ardour,  and  sung,  in  ail  the  harmony  of  verse,  the 
^^  graces  of  his  mistress  ;  and  nothing  more  is  known 

*  Thus  Tacitus  speaks  of  Kklvidius  Priscus  ; 
"  Ingcriumillustre  alnoribus  studiU  juvenis  admodum 
*'  dedit^  non  ua  magnifico  nomine  otium  velaret^  sed  qu9' 


I 


164  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

<^  of  his  character."  .  They  knew  not  all  the  oblige 
tions  that  Hterature,  which  he  reclaimed  from  the 
barbarity  under  which  it  had  been  so  long  buried, 
owes  to  his  pen.  They  knew  not  that  he  saved  the 
works  of  the  best  writers  of  antiquity  from  dust  and 
rottenness  ;  that  all  these  precious  treasures  would 
have  been  lost  to  us,  if  he  Lad  not  dug  them  from  the 
grave,  and  procured  correct  copies  of  them  to  be 
made.  They  were  ignorant,  perhaps,  that  he  was  the 
first  restorer  of  the  belles  lettres  in  Europe  ;  that  he 
purified  the  taste  of  the  age  ;  that  he  himself  thought 
aiid  wrote  like  an  ancient  citizen  of  Rome  before  its 
fall  ;  that  he  extirpated  a  multitude  of  prejudices, 
preserved  his  courage  and  firmness  until  the  hour  of 
his  death,  and  that  his  last  work  surpassed  all  those 
which  had  preceded  it.  Still  less  were  they  informed, 
that  Pe'Trarch  was  an  able  statesman,  to  whom  the 
most  celebrated  sovereigns  of  his  age  confided  every 
difficult  negociation,  and  consulted  in  their  most  im- 
portant concerns  ;  that  in  the  fourteenth  century,  he 
possessed  a  degree  of  fame,  credit,  and  iniluence, 
which  no  man  of  learning  of  the  present  day  has  ever  ac- 
quired ;  that  three  popes^an  emperour,  a  sovereign  of 
France,  a  king  of  Naples,  a  crowd  of  cardinals,  the  great-, 
est  princes,  the  most  illustrious  nobility  of  Italy,  culti*. 
rated  his  friendship,  and  solicited  his  correspondence  ; 
that,  as  a  statesman,  a  minister,  an  ambassador,  he 
was  employed  in  transacting  some  of  the  greatest  af- 
fairs of  the  age  ;  that  he  was  thereby  placed  in  a  situ- 
ation to  instruct  them  in  the  most  useful  and  important 
truths  ;  that  to  Solitude  alone  he  owed  all  this  power  ; 
that  no  person  was  better  acquainted  with  its  advan- , 
tages,  cherished  it  with  greater  fondness,  or  resound- 
ed its  praises  with  higher  energy  ;  and  that  he  at 
length  preferred  Liberty  and  Leisure  to  all  the  enjoy- 
ments of  the  world.  He  appeared  a  long  time  ener- 
tated  by  Love,  to  which  he  had  consecrated  the  prime- 


ON    THE    MIND    AND    THE  HEx\RT,  165 

of'his  life  ;  but  he  suddenly  abandoned  the  soft  and  ef- 
feminate tone  with  which  he  sighed  at  I.aura's  feet  ; 
addressed  himself,  with  maniy  boldness,  to  kings,  to 
emperours,  to  popes  ;  and  ever  afterwards,  maintained 
that  confidence,  which  line  talents  and  a  great  charac- 
ter, always  inspire.     With  an  eloquence  worthy  of 
Demosthenes  and  Cicf^Ro^  he  exhorted  the  princes  of 
Italy  to  make  peace  among  themselves,  and  to  unite 
their  powers  against   the  common   enemies,  the  bar- 
barians, who  tore  to  pieces  the  very  bosom  of  their 
country.      He   encouraged,    guided    and    supported 
JRiENZij  who  appeared  like  a  guardian  angel  sent  from 
Heaven,   to  re-establish  the  original  splendour  of  the 
city  of  Rome.     He  incited  a  pusillanimous  emperour 
to  penetrcite  into  the  heart  of  Italy,  and  to  seize,  as 
the  successor  of    the  Caesars,  the  government  of 
the  empire.      He   conjured  the  popes  to  replace  the 
holy  chair,  which  they  fiad  transported  to  the  borders 
of  the  Rhine,  once  more  upon  the  banks  of  the  Tiber. 
At  a  time  even  when  he  acknowledges,  in  one  of  his 
writings,  that  his  mind  was  filled  with  vexation,  hia 
bosom  tormented  by  a  tender  passion,  which  he  was 
incessantly  endeavouring  to  conquer,  disgusted  with 
the  conduct  of  men,   and  tired  of  puhlick  life  ;  Pops 
CLEMEN'f  thQ  sixth,  who,  Without  doubt,  was  ignorant 
of  what  was  passing  in  his  heart,  entrusted  him  with 
a  negociation  of  great  difficulty,  to  the  court  of  Na- 
ples,    Petrarch  undertook  the  charge.     He  confes- 
ses that  the  life  of  a  court  had  rendered  him  ambi- 
tious, busy  and  enterprising  ;  and  that  it  was  laugha- 
ble to  behold  a  hermit,   accustomed  to  live  in  woods 
:  and  traverse   the  plains,   now  running  through  the 
magnificent  palaces  of  cardinals,  with  a  crowd  of  cour- 
tiers in  his  suife.     When  Jony  Visconti^  archbishop 
and  prince  of  Milan  and  sovereign  of  all  Lombard y, 
a  ma'i   who  united  the  finest  talents  with  a  i  ambition 
so  insatiable  that  it  thrcw^tened  to  swallow  up  all  Italy, 


166  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

had  the  happiness  to  fix  PeTkarch  in  his  interests;, 
and,  by  inducing  him  to  undertake  the  office  of  private 
secretary,  to  gain  every  thing  that  could  accompany 
such  an  acquisition,  a  philosopher  and  a  man  of  learn- 
ing, who  esteemed  Solitude  above  any  other  situation  ; 
the  friends  of  Petrarch  excaimed-- — ^'  How  !  this 
"  bold  republican,  who  breathed  no  sentiments  but 
^*  those  of  liberty  and  independence  ;  this  untamed 
"  bull,  who  spurned  at  the  shadow  of  the  yoke  ;  who 
"  disdained  any  other  fetters  than  those  of  love^  and 
^*  who  frequently. found  even  these  too  heavy  ;  who 
**  refused  so  many  advantageous  offers  from  the  court 
"  of  Rome,  and  preferred  his  liberty  to  all  the  ensla- 
^^  ving  charms  of  gold — now  voluncarily  submits  to 
*^  the  shackles  of  the  tyrant  of  Italy  ;  this  misan- 
'^  thrope,  v/ho  could  no  longer  exist  but  in  rural  tran- 
"  quility  ;  this  great  apostle  of  Solitude,  has,  at  length 
*^  quietly  taken  his  habitation  amidst  the  tumults  of 
^^  Milan  i'*  "  My  friends,"  replied  Petrarch^  '<■  you 
"  are  perfectly  right  ;  man  has  not  a  greater  enemy 
^'  than  himself.  1  have  acted  contrary  to  my  inciina- 
"  tion,  and  against  my  own  sentiments.  Alas  !  in  all 
**  the  transactions  of  oar  hves,  we  do  those  things 
"  that  we  ought  not  to  do,  and  leave  undone  those 
"  things  to  which  we  are  most  inclined.^'  But  Pe- 
trarcli  might  have  told  his  friends,  "  I  v/as  inclined  to 
"  give  you  an  example  of  what  a  man  is  able  to  do  in 
"  the  affairs  of  the  world,  v,  hen  he  has  sufiiciently  ex- 
"  ercised  the  pov/ers  of  his  mind  in  Solitude  ;  and  to 
*'  convince  you,  that  a  previous  retirement  confers 
"  liberty,  firmness,  expression,  solidity,  dii^nity,  and 
"  nobility,  upon  all  the  transactions  of  publick  life," 

Aversion  from  the  commerce  of  the  w()rld,  and  the 
frivolous  employments  of  the  metropolis,  inspires  the 
mind  with  a-sufticient  degree  of  coi* rage  to  despise  the 
prejudices  of  the  age,  and  the  opinions  of  the  multi- 
tude— a  courage  which  is,  therefore,  seldom  foimd  ex- 


\ 


©N  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HJ^KT.  16^ 

cept  among  solitary  men.  The  commerce  of  the 
world,  far  from  fortifying  the  soul,  only  weakens  it  ; 
in  the  same  manner  that  enjoyment,  too  frequently  re- 
peated, blunts  the  edge  of  every  pleasure.  Oh  !  how 
frequently  the  best  plans  fail  of  success,  from  difficul- 
ties of  execution,  notwithstanding  the  accuracy  and 
excellence  with  which  they  are  formed  !  IIow  many 
happy. thoughts  have  been  stifled,  at  the  moment  of 
their  birth,  because  they  then  appeared  rather  too 
bold  1  When  a  literary  work  appears,  no  enquiry  is 
made  coiicerning  the  excellence  of  the  matter,  or  the 
elegance  of  its  composition.  The  reade;'  seeks  only 
to  divine  the  intention  of  the  author  ;  construes  eve- 
ry expression  contrary  to  its  import  ;  perceives  a  vein 
of  satire  where,  in  fact,  no  satire  exists — where  it 
would  be  impossible  that  there  should  be  any';  and 
disfigures  even  those  respectable  truths  which,  the  au- 
thor discloses  in  the  sincerity  of  his  heart,  and  for 
which  every  just  and  honest  mind  will  silently  thank 
him. 

The  President  MoNfEssiuiEU  experienced  this 
treatment,  at  Paris,  in  the  mei^dian  of  his  splendour  ; 
and  for  this  reason  he  has  observed,  in  the  defence  of 
his  immortal  work,  "  The  Sfdrit  of  Zams-," — '^  Noth- 
"  ing  stifles  knowledge  more  than  covering  every 
\  5*  thing  with  a  doctor's  robe  ;  for  the  men  who  are 
j  <^  continually  teaching,  are  great  hindrances  to  learnf 
<*  ing.  There  is  no  genius  that  is  not  contracted, 
<'  when  it  is  enveloped  by  a  million  of  vain  scruples. 
."  Although  you  have  the  best  intentions  that  were  ever 
."  formed,  they  will  even  force  the  mind  to  doubt  its 
"  own  integrity.  You  can  no  longer  employ  your  en- 
5'  dcavours  to  speak  or  to  write  with  propriety,  when 
<'  you  are  perplexed  with  the  fear  of  expressing  your- 
^<  self  ill,  and  when  instead  of  pursuing  your  thoughts, 
"  you  are  only  busy  in  selecting  such  terms  as  may 
fr  escape  the  subtlety  of  the  critics.     They  seem  iut 


168  THE    iNJLUENC^    OF    SOLITUDE 

<•  dined  to  place  a  biggin  on  our  heads,  and  to  warn 
^'  us  at  every  word.  Take  care  you  do  not  falL  You 
<^  %vo%dd  i>Jicak  like  yourselj^  but  I  would  have  you  speak 
<^  like  me  J'  "  If  you  attempt  to  soar,  they  puil  you 
<*  by  the  sleeve,  and  impede  your  flight.  If  you  write 
«'  with  life  and  spirit,  they  instantly  deprive  you  cf  it. 
«  If  you  rise  to  some  height,  they  take  out  their  rule 
<<  or  their  compass,  and  lifting  up  their  he^ids,  def 
^'  sire  you  to  come  down,  that  they  may  measure 
<*  you  :  and  in  running  your  course,  they  advise  you 
^<  to  tike  notice  of  all  tiie  impediments  which  the  ants 
"  have  raised  in  your  way." 

AIox7'EsoviEU  says,  "  that  no  science  nor  literature 
<<  is  proof  against  this  pedantry."  But,  did  he  not 
himself  resist  it  ?  Does  not  his  work  continue  to  be 
reprinted  ?  Is  it  not  read  with  universal  applause  ? 

The  writer  v/ho  knows,  and  dares  to  paint  the  char- 
acters of  men,  must,  witliout  doubt,  wear  a  triple  shield 
upon  his  breast  :  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no 
book  worth  reading  without  this  style  c/f  painting.— i- 
There  are  certainly  truths  in  every  good  work,  against 
which  tlie  indignation  of  those  who  are  interested  will 
naturally  arise.  Why  do  the  English  so  far  surpass 
us  in  their  speculations  upon  mankind  ?  Why  do  we 
appear  so  puerile,  when  compared  with  them,  or  witlv 
the  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  on  every  subject  that 
respects  the  description  of  human  manners  ?  It  pro^ 
ceeds  from  the  clamours  which  are  raised  against  eve- 
ry autlior  who  hazards  any  opinions  upon  the  philo^LOii 
phy  of  life  for  the  general  benefit  of  mankind.  We, 
who  honour,  in  so  high  a  degree,  the  courage  of  the 
warrior  ;  why,  like  effeminate  Sijbaritcs^  do  the  fold- 
ings of  a  rose-bud  trouble  our  repose  ?  Why  do  we 
vomit  forth  injuries  against  that  civil  courage,  the 
courage  without  arms,  ihc  dojiicslicus  forlifudincs  of 
Cicero  P 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE   HEART.  169 

It  is  false,  that  there  is  neither  heart  nor  spirit  ex» 
eept  in  RepubHcks  ;  that  under  the  dem oc rat ick  form 
of  government  alone,  people  may  speak  the  truth 
•vvith  freedom  and  safety,  and  he  who  thinks  well  may 
think  freely.  In  Aristocracies  especially,  and  even 
lender  a  constitution  much  more  free,  but  where  a 
single  demagogue  possesses  the  sovereign  power, 
vmhappily,  alas  !  they  too  frequently  consider  common 
sense  as  a  crime.  This  absurdity  renders  the  mind 
timid,  and,  of  course,  deprives  the  people  of  all  their 
liberty.  In  a  IVJonarchy,  punishment,  is,  in  almost 
every  instance,  prescribed  by  the  laws  of  justice  ;  but 
in  Republicks,  it  is  inflicted  by  prejudice,  passion,  and 
fitate-neccssity.  Under  a  republican  form  of  govern- 
ment, the  first  maxim  parents  inculcate  into  the  minds 
of  their  children  is,  not  to  make  themselves  enemies. 
To  this  sage  counsel,  I  remember  replying,  when  I 
was  very  young,  "  My  dear  mother,  do  vou  not  know, 
^'  that  he  who  has  no  enemies  is  a  poor  man  ?■ '  The 
citizen  is,  in  many  republicks,  under  the  authority  ond 
vigilant  eyes  of  more;  than  a  hundred  ]>rinces  ;  but  a 
monarch  is  the  sole  prince  on  whom  his  subjects  are- 
dependent.  The  number  of  masters  in  a  republick 
crushes  the  spirit  ;  but,  in  a  monarchy,  love  and  coiT- 
fidence  in  one  alone,  raises  the  spirits  of  the  happy 
people.  In  every  country,  hov/ever,  the  rational  man, 
"who  renounces  all  the  useless  conversations  of  the 
world,  who  lives  a  life  of  Solitude,  and  who,  superior 
to  every  thing  that  he  soes,  to  all  that  he  hears,  forms 
the  integrity  of  his  mind  in  the  tranquility  of  retire- 
ment, by  an  intercourse  wltl\  the  heroes  of  Greece,  of 
Rome,  and  of  Greal-Britainr  lays  a  permanent  foun* 
dation  for  his  future  character,  and  acquires  a  nobift 
Style  of  thinking,  independent  of  the  caprices  of  the 
vulgar. 

These  are  the  ohservaticr.s  I  hac!  to  rfiake  respect- 
i|)g  Ihc  lailuence  of  3.oiiU)de  unon  the  Mind.     Many 

P 


\fO  THE  INFLUENCE!    OF    SOLITUBE 

ef  them  are  perhaps,  undigested,  and  many  more  are 
certainly  not  tveli  expressed. 

Dear  and  \irtuoiis  young  man,  into  whose  hands 
this  hook  perchance  may  fall,  receive  with  kindness 
and  affection  the  good  which  it  contains,  and  reject 
ail  that  is  cold  and  bad  ;  ail  that  does  not  touch  and 
penetrate  the  heart.  But  if  you  thank  me  for  the 
performance,  if  you  bless  me,  if  you  acknowledge 
that  I  have  enlightened  your  mind,  corrected  yotir 
manners,  and  tranquilized  your  heart,  I  shall  congratu- 
late myself  on  the  sincerity  of  my  intentions, and  thnik 
my  labours  richly  rew^arded.  If,  in  perusing  it,  you 
find  yourself  able  to  justify  your  inclination  for  a  wise 
and  active  Solitude,  your  aversion  from  those  societies 
which  only  serve  to  destroy  time,  and  your  repug- 
nance to  employ  vile  and  shameful  means  in  the  ac? 
quisition  of  riches,  I  shall  ask  no  other  benediction 
for  my  work.  If  you  are  fearful  of  opening  your  lips  ; 
if  you  labour  under  the  continual  apprehension  of  say* 
ing  something  that  may  be  considered  ridiculous,"  in 
the  understandings  of  tlTt)se  who  have  granted  to  them- 
selves the  monopoly  of  wit  and  taste,  and  who,  by  vir- 
tue of  this  usurpation,  go  about  uttering  the  greatest 
absurdities — ah  !  then  think,  that  in  such  company, 
I  should  be  considered  an  equal  blockhead  with 
yourself. 

The  sentiments  of  my  mind  and  the  feelings  of  my 
heart,  have  guided  me  in  every  thing  that  I  have 
ivritten  upon  the  subject  of  Solitude.  It  was  this  that 
occasioned  a  lady  of  i^^reat  wit  to  observe,  on  reading 
the  two  first  parts  of  tli4s  work,  that  I  should  unbo- 
fiom  iny self  upon  every  thing  that  I  felt,  and  should 
lay  down  my  pen  the  moment  those  feelings  were 
expressed.  This  method  of  writing  has  certainly 
produced  faults  which  a  systematic  philosopher  would 
not  have  committed.     But  I  shall  console  myself  for 


I 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  171 


these  errours,  if  this  chapter  aitords  only  a  glimpse  of 
the  advantage  of  Solitude  upon  the  minds,  the  under- 
standings, and  the  characters  of  men  ;  and  that  which 
follows  shall  excite  a  lively  sensation  of  the  true,  nohle^ 
llild  subhme  pleasures  which  Solitude  produces,  by  a 
tl^anquil  and  affectionate  contemiilation  of  nature,  and 
hy  an  exquisite  scnsibiUty  for  every  thio^  ihat  is  ^oob 
and  I  AiR. 


172  THE  INFLUENCE   OF   SOLITUDE 


ClljiP TE R  THE  FOUR TJff. 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF   SOLITUDE  UPON  THE  HEARt. 


P. 


EACE  OF  MIND  is,  upon  earth,  the  supreme 
good.  Simplicity  of  heart  will  procure  this  invaluable 
blessing  to  the  wise  mortal,  who,  renouncing  the  noisy 
pleasures  of  the  world,  sets  bounds  to  his  desires  and 
inclinations,  cheerfully  submits  himself  to  the  decrees 
of  Heaven,  and,  viewing  those  around  him  with  the 
eye  of  charitable  indulgence,  feels  no  pleasure  more 
delightful  than  those  which  the  soft  murmur  of  a 
stream  falling  in  cascades  from  the  summit  of  rocks, 
the  refreshing  breezes  of  XhQ  young  zephyrs,  and  the 
sweet  accents  of  the  woodland  chanters,  are  capable 
of  affording. 

'How  refined  our  sentiments  become  when  the 
tempests  of  life  have  subsided  ;  when  those  misfor- 
tunes which  caused  our  afflictions  have  vanished  ; 
when  we  see  ourselves  surrounded  by  friendship, 
peace,  simplicity,  innocence,  repose,  and  liberty  ! 

The  heart,  to  taste  the  charms  of  retirement,  need 
not  be  without  emotion.  Oh  1  who  would  not  prefer 
to  every  other  enjoyment  the  soft  melancholy  which 
Solitude  inspires  ?  Who  would  not  renounce  the 
universe  for  one  single  tear  of  love  ?  The  heart  is 
susceptible  of  this  felicity,  when  it  has  learned  to 
admire  with  equal  pleasure  natuke  in  its  sublimest 
beauties,  and  in  the  modest  flower  which  decorates 
the  valley  ;  when  it  has  learned  to  enjoy,  at  the  same 
time,  that  infinite  system,  that  uniform  succession  of 
parts,  which  expands  the  soul,  and  those  delicious  de- 
jtaiis  which  present  soft  and  pleasant  images  to  the 


ON  THE. MIND    AND    THE   HEART.  173 

mind*  These  pleasures  are  not  exclusively  reserved 
for  strong  energetick  minds,  whose  sensations  are  as 
lively  as  they  are  dehcate,  and  upon  whom,  for  that 
reason,  good  and  bad  make  an  equal  impression. 
The  purest  happiness,  the  most  enchanting  tran6|uility^ 
are  also  within  the  reach  of  men  whose  temperament 
is  coid  ;  who,  endowed  with  imaginations  less  bold 
and  lively,  always  perceive  something  extravagant  in 
the  energetick  expression  ofa  still  more  energetick  sen- 
sation :  in  the  pictures,  therefore,  which  are  presented 
to  the  eye  of  such  characters,  the  colouring  must  not 
be  high,  nor  the  teints  too  sharp  ;  for,  as  the  bad 
strikes  them  less,  so  also,  they  are  less  susceptible  of 
the  livelier  enjoyments. 

The  heart  owes  the  most  agreeable  enjoyments 
which  it  derives  from  Solitude,  to  the  imagination. 
The  touching  aspect  of  delightful  nature  ;  the  varie- 
gated verdure  of  the  forests  ;  the  noise  of  an  impetu- 
ous torrent  ;  the  quivering  motion  of  the  foliage  ;  the  . 
,  harmony  of  the  gioves,  and  an  extensive  prospect, 
ravish  the  soul  so  entirely,  and  absorb  in  such  a  man- 
ner all  our  faculties,  that  the  though  s  of  the  mind  arc 
instantly  converted  into  sensations  of  the  heart.  The 
view  of  an  agreeaLie .  landscape  excites  the  softest 
emotions,  and  gives  birtl:i  to  pleasing  and  virtuous  sen- 
ti:nents  ;  all  this  is  produced  by  the  charms  of  ima- 
gination. 

The  imagination  spreads  a  touching  and  seductive 
Gharm  over  every  object,  provided  we  are  surrounded 
by  freedom  and  tranquility.  Oh  1  how  easy  it  is,  to 
I'tnorince  noisy  pleasures  and  tumultuous  assembliesi 
for  the  enjoyments  of  that  philosophick  melancholy 
which  Solitude  hispires  !  A  rehgious  honour  and  soft 
raptures  are  alternately  excited  by  the  deep  gloom  of 
forests,  by  the  tremendous  height  of  broken  rocks,  and 
by  the  multiplicity  of  sublime  and  majestic  objects 
Tvhich  present  themselves  to  our  vieW;  on  the  delight* 
P    2 


174  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

fal  scite  of  a  smiling  landscape.  There  are  no  sensa* 
tions,  however  painful,  which  are  not  vanquished  by 
these  serious  but  agreeable  emotions,  and  by  those 
soft  reveries  to  which  the  surrounding  tranquility  in- 
vites the  mind.  The  Solitude  of  retirement,  and  the 
awful  silence  of  alliiature,  impress  an  idea  of  the  hap- 
py contrast  between  simplicity  and  grandeur.  Our 
feelings  become  more  exquisite,  and  our  admira- 
tion more  lively,  m  proportion  to  the  pleasures  wx 
receive. 

I  had  been,  during  the  course  of  many  years,  famil- 
iar With  the  sublirnest  appearances  of  nature,  when  I^ 
^aw,  for  the  first  time,  a  garden  cultivated  in  the  Eng- 
lish taste  near  Hanover ;  and  soon  afterwards,  I  be- 
held one  in  the  same  style,  but  on  a  much  larger 
scale,  at  Marienverder,  about  the  distance  of  a  league 
from  the  former,  I  was  hot,  then,  apprisetf  of  the 
extent  of  that  art,  which  sports  with  the  most  un- 
grateful soil,  and,  by  a  new  species  of  creation,  con- 
verts even  barren  sandy  mountams  into  fertile  and 
^inuling  landscapes.  This  magick  art  makes  an  aston- 
ishing impression  on  the  mind  ;  it  excites  in  every 
heart,  not  yet  insensible  to  the  delightful  charms  of 
cultivated  nature,  all  the  plea^-.ures  which  Solitude, 
rural  repose,  and  a  seclusion  from  the  haunts  of  men 
can  procure.  I 'cannot  recollect  a  single  day,  during 
the  early  part  of  my  residence  at  Hanover,  without 
tears  of  gratitude  and  joy.  Torn  from  the  bosom  of 
my  country,  from  the  embraces  of  my  family,  and 
driven  from  every  thing  thsit  I  held  dear  in  life,  my 
mind  was  not  susceptible  of  any  other  sentiments  than 
those  of  the  deepest  melancholy.  But  when  I  entered 
into  the  little  garden  of  my  late  friend  M,  de  Huni- 
BEH,  near  Hanover,  I  forgot,  for  the  moment,  both 
my  country  and  my  grief. 

The  charm  y/^s  new  to  my  mind.     I  was  not  then 
Tipprised  that  .t  was  possible,  upon  so  small  a  scale,  t© 


A^  ^ 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAUT,  175 

imitate  the  enchanting  variety  and  the  noble  simplicity 
of  nature.  I  was  not  till  then  convinced  that  her  as- 
pect alone  was  suiiicient,  at  the  first  view,  to  oblite- 
rate all  the  oppression  of  the  world,  to  excite  in  our 
breasts  the  purest  luxury,  to  fill  our  minds  with  every 
sentiment  that  can  create  a  fondness  for  life.  I  still 
bless  the  hour  when  I  first  learned  this  secret. 

This  new  re-union  of  art  and  nature,  which  was 
invented  not  in  China  but  in  England^  is  founded  upon 
a  refined  taste  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  confirmed  by 
experience,  and  by  the  sentiments  which  a  chaste 
fancy  reflects  upon  a  feeling  heart.  Hirchfeld,  the 
great  painter  cf  nature,  an  amiable  and  sensible  philo- 
sopher, the  first  German  who,  by  his  admirable  theo- 
ries, introduced  among  us  a  knowledge  of  gardening, 
is  become,  by  conferring  this  knowledge,  one  of  the 
greatest  benefactors  to  his  country. 

There  are,  without  doubt,  many  German-English 
gardens,  so  whimsically  and  ridiculously  laid  out,  that 
they  only  excite  emotions  of  pity  and  contempt.  Who 
can  forbear  laughing  to  see  forests  of  poplar  trees, 
scarcely  large  enough  to  warm  a  chamber  stove  for  a 
week  ;  mole-h'ills  which  they  call  mountains  ;  mena- 
geries of  tame  and  savage  animals,  birds,  and  amphi- 
bious creatures,  grinning  in  native  grandeur  upon  tin  ; 
bridges  without  number  across  a  river  which  a  couple 
of  ducks  would  drink  dry  ;  wooden  fishes  swimming 
in  canals  which  the  pump  every  morning  supplies  with 
water  ?  All  this  is  certainly  still  less  natural  than  the 
pitiful  taste  of  our  ancestors.  But  if,  on  the  contra- 
ry, in  the  garden  of  M.  Hinuber,  at  Marienverder, 
every  look  elevates  my  soul  towards  God,  if  every 
point  of  view  affords  to  the  soul  sublime  repose,  if 
on  every  bank  I  discover  scenes  ever  smiling  and  ever 
new,  if  my  heart  feels  relief  from  the  aspect  of  this 
enchanting  place,  shall  I  amuse  myself  by  discussing^ 
wjiether  what  I  see  might  have  been  done  in  a  differ* 


^ 


ITS  THE   INFLUENCE  OF    SOLITUDE 

ent  way,  and  permit  the  insipid  pleasantries  of  cold 
and  tasteless  masters  to  diminish  my  pleasures  ? 
Scenes  of  serenity,  whether  created  by  tasteful  art 
or  the  hand  of  nature,  always  convey  tranquility  to 
the  heart  ;  a  kindness  which  it  owes  to  the  imagina- 
tion. If  a  soft  silence  breathe  around,  and  every  object 
is  pleasant  to  my  view  ;  if  rural  scenes  absorb  ail  my 
attention,  and  dissipate  the  grief  that  lies  heavy  on  my 
heart  ;  if  the  lovehness  ©f  Solitude  enchants  me,  and 
gradually  subduing  my  soul,  leaves  it  full  of  benevo- 
lence, love  and  content  ;  I  ought  to  thank  God  for 
those  pov/ers  pf  imagination  which,  although  it  has 
indeed  frequently  caused  the  trouble  of  my  life,  has 
always  led  me  to  some  friendly  rock,  upon  which  I 
could  hang,  while  I  contemplated  with  greater  com- 
posure the  tempests  I  had  escaped.*  A  celebrated 
English  writer  has  said,  that  "  Solitude,  on  the  first 
*<  view  of  it,  inspires  the  mind  with  terrour,  because 
"  every  thing  that  brings  with  it  the  idea  of  privation 
"  is  terrifick,  and  therefore  sublime,  like  space,  dark- 
"  ness,  and  silence."  In  Switzerland,  and  especially 
near  the  Canton  of  Berne,  the  Alps  have,  at  a  distance, 

*  A  French  writer  has  embellished  this  idea  with  all 
the  riches  of  eloqueiiCe.  "  Thei'c  is  no  mind  of  sensibili- 
^'  tv,  which  has  not  tasted,  in  the  retreats  of  Solitude, 
'^  th:*se  delicious  moments  when  man,  fly ir.g  from  the 
"  delusions  of  falsehood,  enters  into  his  own  heart  to  seek 
*'  the  sparks  of  truth  !  What  pleasm^e,  after  having  been 
^^  tossed,  during  many  years,  ou  the  sea  of  life,  to  climb 
^'  some  friendly  rock,'  and  reflect  in  peace  and  safety  0!i 
*'  the  tempest  and  shipwrecks  which  ensued  !  Happy  the 
**  man  who  can  then  forget  the  idle  prejudices  which  oc- 
**  cupy  the  mind  :  the  miseries  of  humanity  vanish  from 
*'  his  sight ;  august  truth  fills  his  bosom  with  the  purest 
^^  joys.  It  is  only  in  these  moments,  and  in  those  which 
*'  precede  the  dissolution  of  our  mortal  frame,  that  man 
♦'  can  learn  what  he  is  upon  this  eartli,  and  what  tliis 
**  earth  is  to  him," 


ON  THE   ItlND    AND    THE    HEART.  17f 

an  astonishing  grandeur  of  appearance  ;  but  viewed 
nearer,  they  inspire  images  terrifick  and  sublime* 
That  species  of  grandeur  which  accompanies  the  idea 
of  infinity,  charms  the  eye  when  s.een  at  a  proper  dis- 
tance* The  heart  feels  nothing  but  ravishment,  while 
the  eye  observes  from  afar  the  uninterrupted  chain  of 
these  immense  mountains,  these  enormous  masses, 
rising  one  above  the  other.  The  succession  of  soft 
and  lively  shades  temper  the  impression,  and  give  to 
this  prodigious  wall  of  rocks,  more  of  the  agreeable 
than  the  sublirne.  On  the  contrary,  a  mind  of  sensi- 
bility cannot  take  a  near  view  of  these  mountains^ 
without  feeling  an  involuntary  trembling.  The  eye 
looks  with  fear  on  their  eternal  snows,  their  deep  de- 
scents, their  obscure  caverns,  the  torrents  which- 
precipitate  themselves  with  resounding  noise  over  their 
summits,  forming  innumerable  cascades,  the  dark 
forests  of  fir  with  which  their  sides  are  overcharged, 
and  the  enormous  fragments  of  rocks  which  the  tem- 
pests have  detatched  from  their  foundations  during  the 
course  of  time.  How  my  heart  beat,  when,  for  the 
first  time,  I  climbed  through  a  steep  and  narrow  path>^ 
upon  those  svibUme  desarts,  continually  discovering 
new  mountains  rising  over  my  head,  while  upon  the 
least  stumble,  death  menaced  me  in  a  thousand  differ- 
eHt  shapes  below  !  But  imagination  soon  begins  ta 
kindle,  when  you  perceive  yourself  alone  in  the  midst 
ef  all  this  grandeur  of  nature,  and  reflect  from  these 
heights  on  the  nothingness  of  human  power,  and  the 
weakness  of  the  greatest  monarchs  I 

The  History  of  the  Swiss  evinces  that  the  inhabi- 
tants of  these  mountains  are  not  men  of  a  degenerated 
cast,  but  that  their  sentiments  are  elevated,  and  their 
feelings  warm.  Their  boldness  and  intrepidity  is 
inmte  ;  the  spirit  of  hberty  ^ives  wings  to  their  souls  ; 
and  they  trample  tyranny  and  tyrants  under  their  feet* 
But  the  spirit  of  liberty  is  only  to  be  found  ia  its  ge- 


17^  THE  INFL¥^ENCE    OF    SOLITf^DE 

nuine  refinement  among  the  Alps  ;  for  all  the  Swiss 
are  not  in  reality  free,  although  they  have  notions  of 
liberty,  love  their  country,  and  return  their  thanks  t6 
the  Almighty  for  that  happy  peace  which  permits 
each  individual  to  live  quietly  under  his  vine,  and  to 
€njoy  the  shade  of  his  fig-tree. 

The  Alps  in  SKvis'serland  are  inhabited  by  a  race  of 
men,  sometimes  unsociable,  but  always  good  and  ge- 
nerous. The  severity  of  their  climate  renders  them 
hardy  and  robust,  wlxi I e  their  pastoral  life  adds  softnes 
to  their  characters.  At!  Englishman  has  said,  that  he 
whenever  heard  thunder  in  the  Alps,  cannot  conceive 
any  idea  of  the  continuity  of  the  lightning,  the  rolling 
and  the  burst  of  the  thunder  which  roars  round  the 
horizon  of  these  immense  mountains.  The  inhabi- 
tants of  the  Alps  therefore,  who  have  never  seen  better 
houses  than  their  own  cabins,  or  any  other  country 
than  their  native  rocks,  conceive  every  f)art  of  the 
universe  to  be  formed  of  the  same  rough  materials, 
and  a  scene  of  unceasing  tempests. 

But  Heaven  is  not  always  threatening ;  the  lightning 
does  not  continually  flash  upon  their  eyes  ;  immedi- 
ately after  the  most  dreadful  tempests,  the  hemisphere 
clears  itself  by  slow  degrees,  and  becomes  serene* 
The  heads  and  hearts  of  the  Swiss  are  of  a  similar 
nature  ;  kindness  succeeds  to  anger  ;  and  generosity 
to  the  most  brutal  fury  ;  which  might  be  easily  prov- 
ed, not  only  from  the  records  of  history  but  from  re- 
cent facts.  One  of  the  inhabitants  of  these  stupendous 
mountains.  General  d^  Redin,  born  in  the  Canton- 
of  aSW/twVz,  .  was  enrolled  very  early  in  life  in  the  Swiss 
guards,  and  had  attained  the  station  of  Lieutenant 
General  ;  but  his  long  residence  at  Pcm  and  Versail- 
les had  not  in  any  degree  altered  his  character  ;  and 
he  continued  through  life  a  Swiss,  The  orders  issued 
by  the  Court  of  Versailles^  in  the  year  1764,  for  the 
regiiiation  of  the  Swi&s  who  were  in  the  service  of 


ON  THE  MIND  ANB  THB  HEART.        1^9 

that  Court,  occasioned  great  discontents  in  the  Canton 
of  Schwitz,  The  citizens  considered  this  innovation 
as  extremely  prejudicial  to  their  ancient  privileges, 
and  they  threw  the  blame  of  this  measure  upon  Ge'* 
SJERAL  Rkdin,  At  this  crisis  the  wife  of  the  Gene- 
ral, wlio  resided  on  his  estate,  was  e%erting  all  her 
interest  to  raise  recruits  ;  but  the  sound  of  the  French 
drum  was  become  disgusting  to  the  ears  of  the  citi- 
zens of  the  Canton,  and  they  saw  with  indignation  the 
'iifhiie  cockade  placed  in  the  hats  of  the  deluded  pea* 
sants.  The  Magistrate,  apprehensive  that  this  fer- 
mentation might  ultimately  cause  some  insurrection 
among  the  people,  though;  it  his  duty  to  prohibit  Ma-p 
BAME  DE  Redin  from  continuing  to  raise  her  levies. 
The  lady  required  him  to  give  a  certificate  in  writing 
©f  this  prohibition  ;  but  the  Magistrate  was  not  at  that 
moment  inclined  to  act  with  this  spirit  against  the^ 
interest  of  France  ;  and  the  wife  of  the  General  con- 
tinued to  raise  her  recruits.  This  bold  measure  ir- 
ritated the  inhabitants  of  the  Canton  ;  they  summon* 
cd  a  General  Diet,  and  madams  de  Redin  appeared 
before  the  four  thousand.  "  The  drurn,^'  said 
»he,  ^^  shall  never  cease  to  beat,  until  you  give  me  a 
<^  certificate,  which  may  justify  my  husband  to  the 
^^  Court  of  France  for  not  compleatmg  the  number  of 
^'  his  men."  They  granted  her  the  certificate  she 
demanded,  and  the  General  was  at  the  same  timo 
enjoined  to  use  his  interest  at  the  Court  of  France,  for 
the  service  of  his  country.  These  measures  being 
adopted,  the  Canton  waited  in  anxious  expectation  of 
receiving  satisfactory  accounts  from  Paths  ;  but  un- 
happily very  dissatisfactory  accounts  arrived.  The 
feelings  of  the  inhabitants  v/ere  irritated  beyond  res- 
traint ;  and  those  who  were  possessed  of  credit  and 
authority  pul^lickly  maintained  that  the  new  regulatioii 
endangered  both  their  liberties  and  their  rehgion. 
The  geuers^l  discoutent  was  instantly  converted  into 


1«0  THE  rKFLVENCE   OF   SOLITUDE 

iiniversal  fury.  The  Diet  was  again  assembled,  and 
it  was  publickly  resolved  not  to  furnish  the  King  of 
France  with  any  troops  hereafter.  The  treaty  of  al- 
liance in  1713  was  torn  from  the  archieves  of  the  coun« 
try,  and  General  Redxn  was  ordered  to  return  imi- 
mediately  with  the  soldiers  under  his  command,  upon 
pain  of  perpetual  exile.  Redih  obtained  the  King^s 
leave  of  absence  for  himself  and  his  regiment;  and 
they  returned  to  their  own  country.  The  General 
entered  Schwitz^  the  metropolis  of  the  Canton,  at  the 
head  of  his  troops,  with  drums  beating  and  colours 
flying.  They  marched  towards  the  church  ;  Rebin 
placed  the  colours  by  the  side  of  the  great  altar,  fell 
upon  his  knees,  and  offered  up  his  thanks  to  God^ 
He  then  discharged  to  his  soldiers  the  arrears  of  their 
pay,  gave  them  their  accoutrements  and  clothes,  and 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  while  they  wept  around  him, 
tQok  his  leave.  The  fury  of  the  populace  seemed  to 
increase,  when  they  found  themselves  in  possession  of 
a  man  whom  they  considered  as  a  perfidious  wrretch, 
a  traitor  who  had  favoured  the  nev/  regulations  at  the 
Court  of  Fersaiilrs^  and  who  had  conspired  to  give  a 
mortal  blow  to  the  interests  of  his  country.  The  Ge* 
neral  Diet  assembled,  and  Redin  was  summoned  to 
disclose  the  manner  in  wduch  these  new  regulations 
had  passed,  in  order  that  they  nnight  knov/  the  terms 
on  which  they  stood  with  Fra.nce,  and  learn  the  de? 
gree  of  offence  the  traitor  had  committed,  so  that 
they  might  afterwards  grant  him  a  pardon,  or  appor^ 
tion  his  punishment.  Redin,  perfectly  aware  that 
imder  the  real  circumstances  of  the  case,  eloquence^ 
would  be  vainly  exerted  against  minds  heated  in  the 
cause,  contented  himself  with  saying  roughly,  and  in 
few  v/ords,  that  all  the  world  knew  the  manner  in 
which  things  had  passed,  and  that  he  was  as  innocent 
with  regard  to  the  new  regulation  as  he  was  of  his 
iisijoiission.    "  The  traitor^  then,,  will  not  confess  I" 


ON  THE    MIND    ANB    THE    HEART.  181 

exclaimed  the  most  furious  of  the  members  ;  «  hang 
*'  him  on  the  next  tree — cut  him  to  pieces."  These 
menaces  were  instantly  repeated  by  the  whole  as- 
sembly ;  Re  DIN,  however  continued  perfectly  tran- 
quil. A  troop  of  furious  peasants  mounted  the 
ROSTRUM,  while  Redin  stood  by  the  side  of  the  Ma- 
gistrates. It  was  at  this  time  raining.  A  young* 
man,  the  godson  of  Redin,  held  ^  fiarapluie  o\qv  his 
head.  One  of  the  enraged  multitude  with  a  blow  of 
his  stick,  broke  the  parapluie  to  pieces,  exclaiming, 
"  Let  the  villain  be  uncovered."  Rage  swelled  the 
bosom  of  the  youth.  "  Ah  !  ah  !"  said  he,  "  I  did 
"  not  know  that  my  god-father  had  betrayed  his  coun- 
"  try  ;  but  since  it  is  so,  bring  me  a  cord  this  mo- 
"  ment,  that  I  may  strangle  him."  The  Members 
of  the  Council  formed  a  circle  round  the  General, 
and  entreated  him  with  uplifted  hands  to  think  of  his 
danger  ;  to  confess  that  he  had  not  perhaps  opposed 
the  regulation  with  proper  vehemence  ;  and  to  offer 
the  sacrifice  of  his  whole  fortune  as  a  reparation  for 
the  offence  he  had  committed,  on  condition  that  they 
would  spare  his  life.  Redin  walked  out  of  the  circle 
with  a  grave  and  tranquil  air,  and  made  the  sign  of 
silence  with  hi&  hand.  The  whole  Assembly  waited 
with  impatience  to  hear  the  General  confess  ;  and  the 
greater  number  of  the  Members  flattered  him  with 
the  hopes  of  pardon,  "  My  dear  countrymen,"  said 
the  General,  "  you  are  not  ignorant  that  I  have  served 
"  the  King  of  France  two  and  forty  years.  You 
"  know,  and  many  among  you  who  were  with  me  in 
^*  the  service  can  bear  witness  of  its  truth,  how  fre- 
"  quently  I  have  appeared  in  the  face  of  the  enemy, 
"  and  the  manner  in  which  I  have  conducted  myself 
*'  in  several  battles.  I  considered  every  engagement 
*'  as  the  last  day  of  my  life.  But  here  I  protest,  in 
*^  the  presence  of  Almighty  God,  who  knows  all 
"  hearts,  who  listens  to  my  wordsy  who  is  to  judge  us 

Q 


L 


182  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

«  all,  that  I  never  appeared  before  the  enemy  with  a 
"  conscience  so  tranquil,  pure,  and  innocent  ;  and  am 
*'  ready  at  this  instant  to  yield  up  my  life,  if  you 
"  thmk  proper  to  condemn  me  for  not  confessing  an 
'^  Hvfidelity  of  which  I  have  not  been  guilty." 

The  dignity  with  which  the  General  delivered  this 
declaration,  and  the  rays  of  truth  which  beamed  upon 
his  countenance,  calmed  the  fury  of  the  assembly, 
and  he  was  saved.  But  Redin^  and  his  wife  soon 
afterwards  quitted  the  canton.  She  entered  into  a 
religious  convent  at  Uri,  and  he  retired  into  a  deep 
cavern  among  the  rocks,  where  he  lived  two  years  in 
Solitude.  The  fury  of  his  countrymen,  however,  at 
length  subsided  ;  he  returned  to  the  canton,  and  re-^ 
warded  their  ingratitude  by  the  most  signal  services. 
Every  individual  then  recollected  the  integrity  and 
magnanimity  of  the  General  ;  and  to  compensate 
the  injuries  and  injustice  he  had  received,  they  elect- 
ed him  Bailli,  or  first  officer  of  the  canton  :  nay, 
what  very  rarely  happens,  they  afterwards  elected 
him  three  times  successively  to  this  important 
dignity. 

This  is  the  characteristick  disposition  of  the  people 
who  inhabit  the  Alps  of  Swisserland  ;  alternately  mild 
and  violent  ;  following  in  the  extreme  the  dictates  of 
a  bold  and  lively  imagination.  Their  -passions  and 
aifections  experience  the  same  vicissitudes  as  their 
clime.  But  I  candidly  acknowledge,  that  I  would 
rather  live  in  Solitude  among  the  rocks  of  Uri,  than 
be  perpetual  Bailli  of  the  Canton  of  Schwitz.  The 
continual  view  of  the  sublime  dcsarts  of  the  Alps  may 
perhaps  contribute  to  render  the  Swiss  rude  and 
unpolished  ;  but,  as  in  every  similar  situation,  their 
hearts  are  improved  in  kindness  and  good-nature,  by 
the  tranqiiiUty  of  their  fields,  and  the  smiling  beauty 
of  the  scenery  by  which  they  are  surrounded.  The 
English  artists  Acknowledge,  that  the  face  of  nature 


r 


ON    THE    MIND    .\ND    THE  HEAKT.  183 


SwisstTland  ir.  too  sublime  and  too  majestick  for  the 
pencil  to  render  a  faithful  representation  of  it.  But 
what  exquiste  enjoyments  must  they  not  experience 
upon  those  roniantick  hills,  in  those  agreeable  valliesj 
upon  the  happy  borders  of  those  still  and  transparent 
LAKES.*  !  Ah  !  it  is  there  that  nature  may  be  closely 
examined  :  it  is  there  that  she  appears  in  her  highest 
piomp  and  splendour.  If  the  view  of  the  oak,  the 
elm,  the  dark  lirs  which  people  these  immense  fo- 
rests, convey  no  pleasures  ;  if  the  sight  of  those 
majestick  trees  excites  no  pleasing  emotions  in  your 
mind,  there  still  remain  the  myrtle  of  Venus,  the 
almond-tree,    the  jessamine,   the   pomegranate,  and 

*  How  I  love  to  read  in  the  Letters  upon  Swisser- 
LAKD  by  the  professor  Meiners,  with  what  amiable  sen-, 
sibility  that  philosopher  seated  himself  upon  the  banks  of 
the  Lake  of  Biel,  and  quietly  resigned  himself  to  all  the 
emotioiis  of  his  soul  ! — ^'  When  I  am  fatigued,  "  says  M. 
Meiners  to  one  of  his  friends  at  Gottingen,  '^  and 
*'  it  pleases  my  fancy  to  consider  more  attentively  the 
''  several  objects  which  surround  me,  I  seat  myself  upon 
*'  the  first  bank,  or  the  wall  of  a  vine  under  which  people 
*'  continually  passs.  I  never  indulge  this  disposition, 
*'  without  experiencing  an  ineKpre^sible  tr.inquility.  The 
'^  l?.st  time,  it  was^about  six  o'clock  while  the  sun  was 
"  sinking  behind  the  ridge  of  Jura.  The  dark  gi^eu 
''  firs  which  grow  almost  alone  to  a  certain  height  on 
*'  the  mountain  ;  the  oaks  of  a  brighter  vendare  which 
"  succeed  ihem  ;  the  vines,  still  livelier  in  their  teints, 
"  in  tlie  middle  of  which  I  was  seated  :  and  a  consldera- 
"  ble  portion  of  the  Lake,  wliich  by  that  means  appeared 
'^  move  extensive,  was  in  the  shade  ;  while  the  other 
**  part  of  the  Lake,  th<?  opposite  shore,  Biel,  and  Nidaw, 
"  and  the  tops  of  the  Glaciers  were  still  brighter ed  by 
"  the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  Below,  the  bleatii-g  of  the 
*'  flocks  transported  me  in  idea  to  the  smilinjjj  plains  of 
^'  Arcadia  ;  above  I  heard  the  hum  of  peasants,  and  of 
"  fishermen,  whose  boats  I  cculd  scarce  discover  ;  with 
^^  the  affecting  murmer  of  the  lake,  gently  rolling  it« 
"  waves  against  the  rocks  which  over-hang  it's  banks." 


184  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

those  eminences  covered  with  luxurious  vines.  Re- 
jiect,  that  in  no  country  of  the  globe  nature  is  more 
rich  and  variegated  in  her  appearance  than  in  Swiss- 
xiRLAND,  and  that  it  was  the  landscape  and  the  lake  of 
Zurich  which  inspired  the  Idylls  of  the  immortal 
Gessner,  the  most  agreeable  of  all  the  poets  of 
Dature. 

These  sublime  beauties  raise  and  fire  the  heart ; 
and  operate  upon  the  imagination  in  a  much  more 
lively  manner  than  even  more  agreeal^le  scenes  ;  as  a 
fine  night  affords  a  more  august  and  solemn  spectacle 
than  the  finest  day.  In  coming  from  PrescaTi^  by 
the  side  of  the  small  lake  of  J\^emi,  which  lies  in  a 
deep  valley  so  enclosed  by  mountains  and  forests  that 
the  winds  never  agitate  its  quiet  surface,  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  exclaim  with  the  English  poet,  that  here— • 

*'  Black  melancholy  sits  and  round  her  thr&w9 
*'  A  death-like  silence^  and  a  dread  refiose  : 
*'  Her  gloomy  fireseiice  saddens  all  the  scene^ 
"  Shades  every  Jlonver^  and  darkens  every  greeUy 
''  Deefiens  the  murmur  of  the  falling  floods^ 
"  And  breathes  a  hronvner  horrour  07i  the  ivoodsJ* 
Pope,  Eloisa  to  Abelard^  ver.  165. 

While  the  soul  expands,  and  the  mind  be- 
comes serene  and  free,  you  suddenly  discover  from 
the  garden  of  the  Capuchins^  near  Albano^  the  little 
melancholy  lake  with  all  the  mountains  and  forests 
which  surround  it,  the  castle  of  Gandolpho,  with 
Presca'Ti  and  all  its  rural  villas  on  one  side  ;  on  the 
other,  the  handsome  city  of  y^LBANo^  the  village  and 
castle  of  RicciA  and  Geusano^  with  their  hills  deck- 
ed with  vine-leaves  ;  below,  the  extensive  plains  of 
Campania^,  in  the  middle  of  which  Rome^  formerly 
the  mistress  of  the  universe,  raises  its  majestic  head  j 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAUT,  185 

and  lastly,  beyond  all  these  objects,  the  hills  of  77ro- 
ij,  the  j^FPENNiNE^^  and  Mediterranean  sea.* 

Thus  the  view  of  6z/<^///?2e  or  /^erzwi^/yw/ objects  diffe- 
rently ailect  the  heart  :  the  sublime  excite  fear  and 
terrour;  the  beautiful  create  only  soft  and  agreeable 
sensiitions.  But  both  of  them  enlarge  and  aggrandize 
the  sphere  of  the  imagination,  and  enable  us  more 
satisfactorily  to  seek  enjoyments  within  ourselves. 

To  experience  these  pleasures,  however,  it  is  not 
nec&ssary  to  seek  the  solitary  retirements  of  Sjfisser^ 
LAND  and  I'TALT,  Therc  is  no  person,  who  may  not, 
by  quietly  traversing  llie  mountains  with  his  p^un,  and 
without  running  afier  poetic  images,  like  Kleis'T^^ 
learn  to  feel  iiow  much  the  great  scene  of  nature  will 
influence  the  heart,  when  assisted  by  the  pov/ers  of 
imagiation.  The  sight  of  an  agreeable  landscape,  the 
various  points  of  view  which  the  spacious  plains 
afford,  the  freshness  of  the  zephyrs,  the  beauty  of  the 
sky,  and  the  appetite  which  a  long  chace  procures, 
v*^ill  give  feelings  of  health,  and  make  every  step  seem 
too  short.  The  privation  of  every  object  that  can 
recal  the  idea  of  dependence,  accompanied  by  do- 
domestick  comfort,  healthful  exercise,  and  useful 
occupations,  will  add  vigour  to  thought,  give  warmth 
to  iniagination,  present  the  most  agreeable  and  smil- 
ing images  to  the  mind,  and  iriebriate  the  heart  with 

^  *  A  German  Lady,  who  possesses  a  very  lively  imagina- 
tion, undertook  a  voyage  to  Italy  for  the  re-establishment 
of  her  healtli.  Her  strength  increased  day  after  day. 
When  she  found  hearself  on  the  scite  of  Albano,  above 
described,  she  endeavoured  to  express  to  her  companions 
the  emotions  which  the  view  of  tliis  scene  had  occasioned ; 
but  her  feelings  were  so  exquisite,  that  they  deprived  her 
cf  the  power  of  utterance,  and  she  actually  remained 
several  days  without  being  able  to  speak, 

t  M.  Kleist,  a  celebrated  poet  of  Germany,  distin- 
guished by  his  poem  upon  Spring. 


186  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

the  most  delicious  sensations.  A  man  with  a  fine  im- 
agination would  be  more  happy  in  a  dark  prison  than, 
without  imagination,  amidst  the  most  magnificent 
scenery.  But  even  to  a  mind  deprived  of  this  happy 
faculty,  the  tranquility  of  rural  life,  and  the  views  of 
harvest,  will  alone  perform  miracles  upon  the  heart. 
Who  among  us,  alas  !  has  not  experienced,  in  the 
hours  of  languor  and  disgust,  the  powerful  effects 
which  a  view  of  the  enchanting  pleasures  enjoyed  by 
the  village  rustick  is  capable  of  affording  ?  How 
fondly  the  heart  partakes  of  all  his  joys  !  With  what 
freedom,  cordiahty,  and  kindness,  we  take  him  by  the 
hand,  and  listen  to  his  plain  unlettered  tales  1  How 
suddenly  do  wx  feel  our  bosoms  interested  in  every 
object  that  surrounds  us  !  How  soon  all  the  secret  in- 
clinations of  our  souls  are  displayed,  refined,  and 
meliorated  !  Rural  scenes  have  a  variety  of  pleasures 
ibr  those  who,  buried  in  the  sink  of  cities,  have  scarce- 
ly any  knowledf.^e  of  what  pleasure  is. 

A  French  officer  on  his  return  to  his  native  country 
after  a  long  absence,  exclaimed,  "  It  is  only  in  rural 
'•  life  that  a  my.n  can  truly  enjoy  the  treasures  of  the 
''  heart,  himself,  his  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends. 
^^  The  country  has,  in  every  respect,  the  greater  ad- 
*•  vantage  over  the  town;  The  air  is  pure,  the  pros- 
*^  pects  smiling,  the  v/alks  pleasant,  the  living  comfor* 
^'  tables  the  manners  simple,  and  the  mmd  virtuous. 
•*  The  passions  unfold  themselves  without  injury  to 
'*  any  person.  The  bosom  inspired  by  the  love  of 
*'  libi^rty,  feels  itself  dependent  on  Heaven  alone. 
'*•  Avaricious  minds  are  continually  gratified  by  the 
^^  endles  gifts  of  nature  ;  the  warrior  may  follow  the 
<'  chace  ;  the  voluptuary  may  cultivate  the  rich 
*'  fruits  of  the  earth  ;  and   the  philosopher  indulge 

"  his  contemplation  at  ease." Oh  1  how  strongly 

this  writer  moves  and  interests  my  heart,  when  he 
teils  me,  by  this  afTectiDg  passage  of  his  woik^****  I 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  187 

"  should  prefer  a  residence  in  my  native  fields  to  all 
"  others  ;  not  because  they  are  more  beautiful,  but 
•'  because  I  was  brought  up  there.  The  spot  on 
"  which  we  pass  our  earliest  days  possesses  a  secret 
"  charm,  an  inexpressible  enchantment,  superior  to 
"  any  other  enjoyment  the  world  affords  ;  and  the 
'*  loss  of  which  no  other  country  can  compen-' 
**  sate  :  the  spot  where  the  gambols  of  my  infant 
"  days  were  played  ;  those  happy  days  which  passed 
"  without  inquietude  or  cares.  The  finding  of  a  bird's 
*«  nest  then  iiiled  my  bosom  with  the  highest  joy. 
^^  What  delight  h-^we  I  felt  from  the  caresses  of  a 
"  partridge,  in  making  it  peck  at  me,  in  feeling  its 
*'  little  heart  beat  against  my  hand  !  Happy  he  who 
"  returns  to  the  place  of  his  first  attachment  ;  that 
**  place  where  he  fondly  fixed  his  love  on  all  around 
^'  him  ;  wliere  every  object  appeared  amiable  to  his 
*''  eyes  ;  the  fertile  fields  in  which  he  used  to  run  and 
'*'  exercise  lumself ;  the  orchards  which  he  used  to 
««  pillage*." 

These  delightful  sentiments  engrave  indelibly  on 
cur  heart  the  remembrance  of  our  infant  residence  in 
the  country,  of  those  happy  times  which  we  passed 
with  so  much  pleasure  in  the  charming  Solitudes  of 
our  native  country.  Thus,  at  every  period  of  our 
existence,  and  in  every  place,  the  freedom  and  trancjui- 
lity  of  a  country  life  will  induce  us  to  exclaim  with 
the  sacred  orator,  "  How  happy  is  the  wise  and  vir- 
<^'  tuous  man,  who  knows  how  to  enjoy  tranquility 
*'  with  true  dignity  and  perfect  ease,  independent  of 
^''  every  thing  around  him  !  How  preferable  is  the 
"  happy  calm  he  there   tastes  to  the  deafening  cla- 

*  To  tliis  passage,  in  the  French  translation  of  this 
work,  is  subjoined  the  following  note  : — "  Not  knowing 
*'  the  traveller  who  is  here  alluded  to,  we  beg  his  excuse 
*'  for  having  ventured  to  translate  it  into  French  from  the 
^'  text  in  German »'* 


^188         THE  INFLUENCE  OF  SOLITUDE 

<<  mour,  to  the  false  joys  and  dazzling  splendour  of 
"  the  fashionable  world  !  What  refined,  noble,  genc- 
*'  rous  sentiments  rise  and  unfold  tlicmselves  in 
«  retirement,  which,  during-  the  din  of  business  and 
"  the  dissipations  of  pleasure,  lie  concealed  at  the 
<«  bottom  of  the  soul,  fearful  of  the  contemptuous 
"  sneer  of  wicked  and  unthinking  minds." 

O  !  my  beloved  Zouakofrr^^  I  have  felt  in  the 
pleasures  of  a  retired  domestick  life  the  truth  of  those 
doctrines  which  you  announced  to  us  at  Leipsick  ; 
those  useful  doctrines  which  do  not  inculcate  into  the 
mind  a  cold  and  sterile  theology,  but  wise  and  virtuous 
precepts  which  warm  and  animate  the  heart.  I  have 
seen,  as  you  described,  that  in  the  bowers  of  retire- 
ment a  man  of  business  may  forget  his  bickerings  and 
painful  altercations  ;  that  if  he  cannot  banish  them 
from  his  mind,  he  may  drov/n  his  cares  in  the  bosom 
of  friendship  ;  that  his  heart  will  dilate  to  the  charms 
of  consolation  and  hope  ;  that  his  countenance  will 
brighten,  and  all  his  pains  and  disquietudes  suspend 
their  rage  until  he  has  gained  sufficient  strength  to 
support  them,  or  prepared  proper  rem.edies  to  drive 
them  quite  away.  I  have  observed  the  man  of  learn- 
ing in  retirement  abandon  the  thread  of  his  laborious 
researches,  retreat  from  the  labyrinths  of  study,  and 
find  in  the  enjoyments  of  innocence,  and  the  noble 
simiplicity  of  his  domesticks,  more  truth  and  tranquili- 
ty, more  aliment  for  the  heart  and  information  for  the 
mind,  than  in  all  the  precepts  of  art  and  erudition.  I 
have  observed  every  one  there  to  obtain  the  portion  of 
praise  and  approbation  which  he  merits,  and  that  he 
obtains  them  from  a  person  whose  praise  and  appro- 
bation it  is  his  utmost  ambition  to  acquire.  1  have 
seen  the  unfortunate  relieved,  the  wretched  made  hap- 
py, the  wanderer  put  into  his  right  way  ;  I  have  seen, 

f  A  celebrated  Jireacher  in  Germany. 


ON- THE    MIND    AND    THK    HEART.  189 

in  short,  every  body  thus  find  by  degrees  satisfaction 
and  content. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  the  cahii  of  rural  life,  and  the 
viev/  of  nature's  charms,  inspires  a  species  of  soft  and 
tranquil  melancholy.  The  noisy  pleasures  of  the 
world  then  appear  insipid,  and  we  taste  the  charms  of 
Solitude  and  repose  with  increased  delight.  The  hap- 
py indolence  pecuUar  to  Italians,  who,  under  the  plea- 
sures of  a  clear  unclouded  sky,  are  always  poor  but 
never  piiserablc,  contributes  greatly  to  improve  the 
heart.  The  mildness  of  their  cHmate,  the  fertility  of 
their  soil,  their  religious  peaceful  and  contented  dispo- 
sitions compensate  for  every  thing.  Doctor  Moore, 
an  English  traveller,  of  whose  works  I  am  extremely 
fond,  says,  that  "  the  Italians  are  the  greatest  loungers 
"  in  the  world  ;  and  while  walking  in  the  fields,  or 
"  stretched  in  the  shade,  seem  to  enjoy  the  serenity 
"  and  genial  warmth  of  their  climate  with  a  degree  of 
<'  luxurious  indulgence  peculiar  to  themselves.  With- 
"  out  ever  running  into  the  daring  excesses  of  the 
«  English,  or  displaying  the  frisky  vivacity  of  the 
<'  French,  or  the  invincible  pMegm  of  the  German,  the 
"  Italian  populace  discover  a  species  of  sedate  sensi- 
"  bility  to  every  source  of  enjoyment,  from  which, 
"  perhaps,  they  derive  a  greater  degree  of  happiness 
«  than  any  of  the  others," 

Under  this  pleasing  privation  of  those  objects  which 
afflict  and  torment  the  heart,  it  is  in  truth  almost  im- 
possible for  the  mind  to  avoid  an  occasional  indulgence- 
©f  agreeable  chimeras  and  romantick  sentiments  ;  but, 
notwithstanding  all  these  disadvantages,  this  condition 
has  its  fair  side.  Romantick  speculation  may  lead  the 
mind  into  extravagant  resolutions  and  erroneous  sys- 
tems, may  frequently  foment  base,  contemptible  pas- 
sions, habituate  the  mind  to  a  light  and  unsubstantial 
mode  of  thinking,  prevent  it  from  exerting  its  faculties 
with  activity  and  ardour  to  rational  ends;  and  obscure 


l§0  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

/ 

that  prospect  of  happiness  which  a  life  of  simplicity 
and  moderation  presents  to  our  view.  The  soul  also 
may  quit  with  regret  the  ideal  world  on  \vhich  it  dwells 
with  such  fond  delight  ;  and  perhaps  these  illusions 
also  may  not  only  impede  the  discharge  of  the  ordina- 
ry duties  of  life,  but  prevent  the  mind  from  tasting  any 
of  its  pleasures.  It  is  certain,  however,  that  roman- 
tick  sentiments  do  not  always  render  the  mind  unhap- 
py. Who,  alas  !  has  ever  reahsed  the  happiness  he 
has  frequently  been  enabled  to  enjoy  by  the  pleasures 
of  imagination  ? 

RossEAu^  in  his  youth,  was  a  great  reader  of  ro- 
mances ;  and  being  soon  hurried  away  by  the  love  of 
those  imaginary  objects,  with  which  this  species  of 
reading^and  the  fertility  of  his  own  imagination  filled 
his  mind,  he  disregarded  every  thing  by  which  he  was 
surrounded.  This  was  the  source  of  that  taste  for 
Solitude  which  he  preserved  to  the  most  advanced  pe- 
riod of  his  life  ;  a  taste,  in  appearance,  dictated  by 
melancholy  and  misanthropy — but  which  he  attribut- 
ed to  the  irresistible  impulses  of  a  heart  too  kind,  too 
tender,  too  afi^tctionate  ;  and  not  being  able  elsewhere 
to  gratify  his  feeling's  by  sentiments  su (Urgently  warm  ' 
and  animated,  he  was  constrained  to  live  on  fiction. 

There  are  wanderinii;s  of  the    ima::^ination  which 
may  be  indulged,  in  Solitude,  to  gratify  the  feelings 
of  the  heart,  without  doing  any  injury  either  to  our 
sentiments  or  sensations.       In  every  situation  of  my 
life,   I  have  always   found  some  individual  to  whom  . 
my    heart  has   fondly   attached   itself.     Oh  !   if  my  ' 
friends,  v/ho  I  have  left  in  Swisseriand,  knew  how  fre-  \ 
qnently,  during  the  silence  of  the  night,  I  pass  witli 
them  those  hours  which  should  be  sacred  to  sleep  ; 
if  they  knew  that  neither  time  nor  absence  can  efface 
from  my  mind  the  remembrance  hov/  dear  they  have 
been  to  me  from  my  earliest  youth  to  the  present  mo- 
ment 5  if  they  knew  how  speedily  they  make  me  for- 


©N  THE    MIND    AN1>    THE    HEART,  191 

get  misFortune,  they  would,  perhaps,  rejoice  to  find 
that  I  still  live  among  them  in  imaginationj  although 
X  may  be  dead  to  them  in  reality. 

Oh  !  let  not  a  solitary  man,  whose  heart  is  warmed 
by  sentiments  noble  and  refined,  ever  be  thought  un- 
happy !  He,  of  whom  the  stupid  vulgar  so  freely 
complain  ;  he,  whom  they  conclude  to  be  the  victim 
of  every  melancholy  idea?  of  every  sombrous  reflec- 
tion, frequently  tastes  of  inexpressible  pleasures.  The 
Prench  conceived  the  good  Rosseju  to  be  of  a  gloo? 
my  disposition.  He  certainly  was  not  so  during  a 
great  portion  of  his  life  ;  he  certainly  was  not  so 
when  he  wrote  to  M.  de  Malherbe^  the  chancellor's 
son,  "  I  cannot  express  to  you,  sir,  how  much  I  have 
"  been  affected  by  perceiving  that  you  esteem  me  the 
^'  most  unhappy  of  mankind.  The  publick  will, 
"  without  doubt,  judge  of  men  as  you  do  ;  and  this  is 
^'  the  cause  of  my  affliction.  Oh  !  that  the  fate  which 
^'  I  have  experienced,  were  but  known  to  the  whole 
**  universe  1  that  every  man  would  endeavom^  to  fol- 
"  low  my  example  :  peace  would  then  reigh  through- 
*'  out  the  world  ;  men  would  no  longer  dream  of  ca? 
"  lumniating  each  other  ;  and  there  would  no  longer 
^'  be  wicked  men,  when  none  would  find  it  their  inter- 
^*  est  to  be  wicked.  But  in  what  could  I,  in  short, 
f^  find  enjoyment,  when  I  was  alone  ?— -In  myself,  in 
<'  the  whole  universe,  in  every  thing  that  does,  in  eve- 
f'  ry  thing  that  can  exist  therein  ;  in  all  that  the  eye 
"  finds  beautiful  in  the  real  world,  or  the  imagination 
*^  in  the  intellectual.  I  collected  about  me  every  thing 
*^  that  IS  flattering  to  the  heart  ;  my  desires  were  the 
^'  rule  of  my  pleasures.  No  !  the  most  voluptuous 
"  have  never  experienced  equal  delights  ;  and  I  have 
"  always  enjoyed  my  chimeras  much  more  than  if 
*^  they  had  been  reaUsed," 

There  is,  undoubtedly,  a  high  degree  of  rhapsody 
in  these  expres^sions  ;  but,  oh  !  ye  stupid  vulgar,  who 


k 


192  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

would  not  prefer  the  warm  wanderings  of  Eosseau^s 
Blind  to  your  cold  understandings  ?  who  would  not 
voluntarily  renounce  your  emply  discourses,  ail  your 
felicities,  urbanities,  noisy  assemblies,  pastimes  and 
prejudices  I  who  would  not  prefer  a  quiet  and  con- 
tented life,  in  the  bosom  of  a  happy  family  ?  who 
%vould  not  more  willingly  seek,  in  the  silence  of  the 
woods,  upon  the  delightful  borders  of  a  still  lake,those 
pleasures  of  simple  nature  which  leave  so  delightful 
an  impressions,  those  joys  so  pure,  so  affecting,  so 
different  from  your  own  ? 

Eclogues  ar®  fictions  ;  but  they  are  fictions  of  th« 
most  natural  and  agreeable  kind,  the  purest  and  most 
sublime  descriptions  of  rural  happiness. 

If  you  are  inclined  to  taste  of  real  pleasures,  you 
must  seek  them  in  retirement,  where  the  soul  feels 
itself  altogether  disengaged  from  the  torments  and 
oppression  of  the  world  ;  where  she  no  longer  feels 
those  artificial  wants  which  only  contribute  to  render 
her  more  unhappy,  whether  she  is  capable  of  gratify- 
ing them,  or  seeks  hopelesly  to  indulge  them  ;  where 
alone  she  preserves  her  refinement  and  simplicity. 
The  man  who  neither  sees  nor  hears  those  things 
which  may  affect  the  heart,  who  content  with  little  is 
satisfied  with  all,  breathes  nothing  but  love  and 
innocence,  and  perceives  the  golden  age  of  the 
poets  revived,  of  v/hich  the  worldly  minded  man  so 
unjustly  regrets  the  loss.  Serenity,  love,  and  a  taste 
for  the  beauties  of  nature,  were  not  advantages  pecu- 
liar to  the  woods  of  Arcadia  :  we  may  all  live  in  JR" 
CADIA  if  we  please.  The  feelings  of  the  heart,  the  in- 
nocent pleasure  we  derive  from  admiring  a  meadow 
covered  with  flowers,  a  crystal  sj>ring,  and  a  pleasant 
shade,  afford  universal  enjoyment. 

Pope  ascribes  the  origin  of  poetry  to  the  age  that 
immediately  succeeded  the  creation.  The  first  em- 
ployment of  mankind  was  the  care  of  flocks,  and  there^ 


OK  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  ]  9'3 

.  fore  the  most  ancient  sort  of  poetry  was,  probably, 
pastoraL  It  is  natural  to  imagine  that  anciently 
shepherds  must  have  endeavoured  to  divert  the  happy 
leisure  of  tlieir  solitary  and  sedentary  life  ;  and  in 
such  a  situation  what  diversion  could  be  more  agreea- 
ble than  singing  ?  and  in  their  songs  what  could  l>e 
more  natural  than  to  celebrate  their  own  felicity  ? 
Such  was  probably,  in  the  opinion  of  Pope,  the  origin 
oi pastorals  ;  descriptions  of  the  calmness  and  tran- 
quility with  which  the  life  of  a  shepherd  was  attended, 
and  designed,  to  create  in  cur  bosoms  a  love  and 
esteem  for  the  virtues  of  a  former  age. 

Goodness  communicates  itself  by  means  of  these" 
happy  fictions,  and  we  bless  the  poet,  who,  in  the 
ecstacy  of  his  own  felicity,  endeavours  to  render 
others  as  happy  as  himself.  Sicily  and  Zurich  have 
produced  tv/o  of  these  benefactors  to  mankind.  The 
mind  never  beholds  nature  under  a  more  beautiful 
aspect,  we  never  breathe  a  purer  air,  the  heart  never 
beats  so  tenderly,  tiie  bosom  never  feels  more  re- 
fined deliglit,  than  v/hen  we  read  the  Jdylls  of  Theo- 
critus Gessner*  ;  and  it  is  my  peculiar  gratifica- 
tion, my  dear  Gkssner,  when  I  recal  to  mind  tlie 
pleasures  I  have  received  in  our  correspondence. 

*  Perhaps  no  writer  throughout  Europe  has  more  ju- 
diciously criticised  the  Idylls  of  Gessner  than  the  in- 
comparable Blair  in  his  "  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and 
Belles  Letters,"  where  he  says,  "  Of  all  the  moderps 
*'  M.  Gessner,  a  Poet  of  Swisserland,  has  been  the  most 
"  successful  in  his  pastoral  compositions.  He  has  intro- 
"  duced  into  his  Idylls  (as  he  eRtities  them)  many  new 
''  ideas.  His  rural  scenery  is  often  striking,  and  liis  des- 
^'  criptions  are  lively.  He  presents  pastoral  life  to  ns 
^'  with  all  the  embellishments  of  whicli  it  is  susceptible  ; 
*'  but  without  any  excevSS  of  refinement.  What  forms  the 
^'  chief  merit  of  this  poet,  is,  that  he  writes  to  the  heart  ; 
^'  and  has  enriched  the  subject  of  his  Idylls  with  mcidents, 
"  wliich  gi^  e  ri?e  to  much  tender  sentiment.  Scenes  of 
^^  domestic  felicity  are  beautifully  painted.    The  mutual 

R 


194  THE  INFLITEKCE    OF    SCLITU^DB 

It  IS  by  these  ear^y  ar.d  simple  inodes  that  the  bean- 
ties  of  nature  operate  upon  the  heart,  in  aid  of  the 
imagination  ;  that  rural  life  inspires  the  soul  with  the 
mildest  sentiments,  and  that  Sohtude  lends  us  to  hap^ 
piness.  The  mind,  indeed,  dra^vn  a^ay  by  these 
agreeable  images,  -often  resigns  itself  too  easily  to  ro" 
mantick  ideas  ;  but  they  frequently  give  birth  to  fancies 
%vhir:h  amend  the  heart  without  doing  any  injury  to 
the  understanding?;,  while  the  happy  licticns,  and  most 
agreeable  remembranrts  spread  their  flowers  along 
the  tjiorny  paths  of  life. 

The  heart  frequently  feels  no  repose,  the  highest 
happiness  on  earth,  except  in  Solitude  :  but  the  term 
«^  repose"  docs  not  always  signify  sloth  and  indolence% 
The  transition  from  that  which  is  painful  to  that  which 
is  pleasant,^  from  the  restraints  of  business  to  the  free- 
dom of  philosophy,  may  also  be  called  repose.  It 
w^as  from  this  idea  that  P.  SciPio  said,  thst  he  wa3 
never  less  idle  than  in  the  hours  of  liesurc,  and  never 
less  alone  than  wiien  alone.  To  strong  energetic 
minds,  liesure  and  Solitude  are  not  a  state  of  torpidity^ 
hut  a  new  incentive  to  thought  and  action  ;  and,  w^hen 
they  rejoice  that  the  happy  completion  of  one  labour 
enables  them  immediately  to  commence  another,  it  is- 
for  the  heart  and  not  for  the  mind  that  they  ask  repose. 

It  is  but  too  true,  alas  !  that  he  w^ho  seeks  for  a  si- 
tuation exempt  from  all  inquietude  follows  a  chimera, 
He  who  is  inchned  to  enjoy  life,  must  not  aspire  to 
repose  as  an  end^  but  only  as  a  means  of  re-animating 
his  activity.      He  must,  therefore,  prefer   such   em^ 

^»  afTection  of  husbands  and  wives,  of  parents  and  children, 
"  of  brothers  and  sisters,  as  w^ell  as  of  lovers,  are  display- 
^'*  ed  in  a  pleasing  and  touching  manner.  From  not  iin- 
"  derstanding  the  language  in  which  Mr.  Gessnfr 
"  writes,  I  can  be  no  judge  of  the  poetry  of  his  style 
"  but,  in  the  subject  and  conduct  of  his  pastorals,  he  a; 
"  pears  to  me  to  "have  outdone  all  the  moderns/' 


01^-  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  195 

ployments  as  are  best  suited  to  the  extent  and  nature 
of  his  capacity,  and  not  those  which  promise  compen- 
sation and  enjoyment  without  pain  and  labour,  which 
leave  one  portion  of  the  faculties  inert,  steep  the  senses 
in  forgetfuhiessj  and  promise  pleasures  and  advant'^^cs 
v/hich  require  no  exertions  to  lUtain. 

Repose  is  not  to  be  found  in  indolence,  but  by  taking 
immediate  advantage  of  the  first  impulse  to  action, 
if  the  misfortunes  of  those  we  love  ahvays  make  us  un- 
happy ;  if  the  grief  of  those  whom  v/e  observe  under  suf- 
ferings tear  our  hearts  ;  if  the  acute  feelings  of  com- 
passion for  the  unfortunate,  poison  all  our  pleasures, 
envelope  the  appearances  of  the  world  in  shades  of  the 
darkest  melancholy,  render  our  existence  painful,  our 
faculties  incapable  of  exertion,  and  deprive  us  even  of 
?^bility  to  practise  the  virtues  which  we  feel  ;  if  .  we 
for  months  and  years  vainly  endeavour  to  deliver  our- 
selves from  the  most  cruel  suiferlngs,  we  must  then 
iiibsolutely  {ly  to  SolitCde.  But  oh  !  may  ihcBeau^ 
ty  which  accompanicii  our  retreat,  be  an  Angel  of 
Virtue,  who,  in  our  descent  to  the  vale  of  death,  will 
conduet  and  support  us  by  htr  v/isdom  in  a  uobk  t»iid 
sublime  tranquility* 

Amidst  the  concatenation  of  passions  and  misfor- 
tunes, of  wliich  I  was  the  sport  and  victiu),  I  kntw 
rlo  hours  more  happy  than  those  in  which  I  forgot  the 
work!  f»nd  vras  forgotten  by  it.  Those  liappy  hours  I 
al>vays  found  m  the  silence  of  the  groves.  AU  that 
oppressed  my  heart  in  publick  life,  all  thLit  in  tiie  vor- 
tex of  the  world  only  inspired  me  with  disgust,  fear 
or  constraint,  then  fled  far  away.  I  admired  the  sr- 
ience  of  surrounding  nature,  and,  while  I  enjojed  the 
scene,  the  softest  and  most  delicious  sensations  fdled 
iriy  breast. 

How  often  in  the  inebriety  of  pure  and  ineffable  de- 
light, })ave  I,  on  the  approach  of  spring,  admired  the 
raagnificent  valley,  v.'here  the  ruins  of  the  residence  of 


196  THE    INFLUENCE  OF    SOLITUDE 

RoDOLPHO  DE  Hapsburg  Hses  upoH  the  Side  of  a  hill 
crowned  with  woods,  whose  variegated  foliage  pre- 
sents all  the  hues  which  verdure  can  produce  !  There 
I  beheld  the  Aar  descend  in" a  torrent  from  the  lofty 
mountains,  sometimes  forming  itself  into  a  bason  en- 
closed by  steep  banks,  sometimes  precipitating  itself 
through  narrow  passages  across  the  rocks,  then  wind- 
ing its  course  quietly  and  majestically  through  the 
iniddle  of  smiling  and  fertile  plains,  whilst  on  the 
ther  side  the  Ruffs,  and  lower  dow^n  the  Limmat 
oring  the  tribute  of  their  streams,  and  peaceably  unite 
with  the  waters  of  the  Aar.  In  the  midst  of  this  rich 
ar:d  verdant  carpet,  I  beheld  the  Royal  Solitude  where 
the  remains  of  the  Emperour  Albert  the  first  re- 
pose in  silence,  with  those  of  many  Princes  of  the 
House  of  Austria,  Counts,  Knights,  and  Gentlemen, 
killed  by  the  Swiss.  At  a  distance,  I  discovered  the 
Jono:  valley,  where  lie  the  ruins  of  the  celebrated  city 
of  Yindonissa*,  upon  which  I  have  frequently  sat  and 
refiected  on  the  vanity  of  human  greatness. 

*  Vindonissa  was  a  very  large  and  well  fortified  Roman 
village,  which  served  as  a  fortress  to  the  Emperours, 
against  the  irruptions  of  the  Germans.  In  this  place, 
tiiey  continually  kept  a  verv  numerous  garrison  to  over- 
awe those  dangerous  neighbours,  who  fre(juently  establish- 
ed themselves  on  the  borders  of  the  Rhme,  and  pillaged 
the  plains  of  the  Aar,  notwithstanding  the  fortresses  the 
Romans  had  erected  on  the  b:ujks  of  tliat  river.  The  Em- 
perour Constawtinp:  Chlorus  defeated  the  Germans 
in  the  year  2 07,  between  tlie  Rhine  and  the  Aar  ;  but  at 
the  beginning  of  the  fourth  century,  the  Romans  lost  all 
tiieir  power  in  that  country,  and  Vindonissa  was  taken 
and  distroved  by  the  Germans.  It  apj^ears,  indeed,  that 
it  was  rebuilt  ;'  for  the  Episcopal  chair  was,  during  the 
reign  of  the  French  Emparours,  established  in  this  city, 
but,  in  consequence  of  being  again  destroyed,  was  towards 
the  year  579  removed  to  Constantia.  It  was  among  the 
remPiins  of  this  celebrated  city,  that  the  Counts  Win- 
DicH  and  Altembe;rg  dwelt,  in  the  tenth  century.     Of 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  197. 

Beyond  this  magnificent  country,  ancient  castles 
raise  their  loity  heads  upon  the  hiils,  and  the  far  dis- 
tant horizon  is  terminated  by  tiie  romantick  and  sub- 
lime summits  of  the  Alps.  In  the  midst  of  all  this 
grand  scenery,  my  eyes  were  involuntarily  cast  down 
into  the  deep  valley  immediately  belov/  me,  and  con- 
tinued fixed  upon  the  little  village  where  I  first  drew 
my  breath.  I  traced  all  the  houses,  and  every  win- 
dow of  the  house  which  I  had  hihabited.  When  I 
compared  the  sensations  I  then  felt,  with  those  which 
I  had  before  experienced,  I  exclaimed  to  myself — 
"  Why,  alas  1  does  my  soul  thus  contract  itself,  when 
^'  surrounded  by  so  many  objects  c?ipable  of  inspiring 
*^  the  sublimesL  sentiments  ?  Why  does  the  season, 
"  so  lively  and  serene,  appear  to  me  so  turbulent  and 
*<  dismal  ?  Why  do  I  feel,  on  casting  my  eyes  below, 
"  so  much  uneasiness  and  disgust,  when  but  a  mo- 
"  ment  ago,  on  viewing  those  romantick  objects,  I 
<*  Cdt  my  heart  expand  with  tranquility  and  love,  par- 
^'  doned  all  the  errours  of  misguided  judgement,  and 
''  forgot  the  injuries  I  have  received  ?  Why  are  that 
"  little  knot  of  men,  who  are  assembled  under  my 
*'  feet,  so  fretful  and  discordant  ?  Why  Ir>  a  virtuous 
"•'  character  50  horrid  to  their  sight  ?  Why  is  he  who 
'^  governs  so  imperious,  and  he  who  is. governed  so 
"  abject  ?  Why  is  there,  in  this  place,  so  little  libev- 
^'  ty  and  courage  ?  Why  are  there  so  few  among 
"  theni  who  know  themselves  ?  Why  is  one  so  proud 
"  and  haughty,  another  so  mean  and  groveling  ? — 
*'  Why,  in  short,  among  beings  who  are  by  nature 
'^  equal,  does  pride  and  envy  so  egregiously  prevail  ;' 
*^  while  they  perceive  the  natives  of  these  grovevS 
**  perch  without  distinction  upon  the  highest  and  the 

all  this  grandeur,  the  ruins  only  are  now  to  be  seen  ;  be- 
low which,  near  the  castles  of  Windich  and  Altemberg,  is 
the  httle  village  of  Brugg,  where  I  was  born» 

R    2 


igg  TttE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

'<  lowest  boughs,  and  unite  their  songs  to  celebrate 
"  the  praises  of  the  Creator  ?'*  Having  finished  mv 
soliloquy,  I  descended  from  my  mountain,  satisfied 
and  peaceable,  made  my  profound  reverences  to  7nes^ 
sieicrs  the  Burgomasters,  extended  my  hand  with  cor- 
diality to  every  one  of  my  inferiors,  and*  preserved  the 
happiest  tranquility  ;  until,  by  mixing  wilJi  the  world, 
the  sublime  mountain,  the  smiling  valley,  and  the 
friendly  birds,  vanished  from  my  mmd. 

Thus  rural  Solitude  dissipates  all  those  ideas  which 
displease  us  in  the  society  of  men,  changes  the  bitter- 
i-st  feelingij  into  the  sweetest  pleasures,  and  inspires  an 
ecstaCy  and  content  which  the  votaries  of  the  world 
can  never  experience.  Tlie  tranquility  of  nature  si- 
lences every  criminal  inclination  in  the  corrupted  heart ; 
renders  us  blithe,  amiable,  open,  and  confident  ;  and 
strengthens  our  steps  in  the  paths  of  virtue,  provided 
We  direct  the  passions  to  their  proper  end,  and  that  an 
ovei^heated  imagination  does  not  fabricate  fancied  w^oes. 

The  «\ttaiament  of  all  these  advantages  is,  without 
doubt,  a  task  rather  too  difficult  to  perform  in  the  Sol^ 
.nude  of  cities.  It  appears  easy  indeed  to  retire  to  our 
f.partment,  and  raise  our  minds  by  silent  contempla- 
tion above  the  consideration  of  those  objects  by  which 
v/e  are  surrounded.  But  few  j>ersons  enjoy  sufficient 
opportunities  to  do  this  ;  for  within  doors,  a  thousand^ 
things  may  occur  to  interrupt  the  course  of  our  reflec- 
tions ;  in  the  streets,  and  in  company,  a  thousand  cros^ 
accidents  may  happen  to  canfound  our  vain  wisdom  ; 
und  peevish  painful  sensations  will  soon  aggravate  the 
heart  and  weaken  the  mind,  when  not  upheld  by  ob- 
jects sufBciently  affecting. 

RossEAU  was  always  extremely  unhappy  at  Paris.* 

*  lean  truly  say y  that  all  the  time  I  lived  at  Paris^ 
mfas  only  employed  in  seeking'  the  iticam  of  being  able  to 
iivc  out  of  it^ 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAflT.  199 

This  extraordinary  genius,  indeed,  wrote  bis  immor- 
tal works  while  he  resided  in  the  metropolis  :  but  the 
moment  he  quitted  his  house,  his  mind  was  bewilder- 
ed by  a  variety  of  opposite  sentiments,  his  ideas  aban- 
doned him  ;  and  the  brilliant  writer,  the  profound 
philosopher,  he  who  was  so  intimately  acquainted 
with  all  the  labyrinths  of  the  human  heart,  became  al- 
most a  child. 

In  the  country,  we  leave  home  with  greater  safety, 
cheerfulness  and  satisfaction.  The  sohtary  man,  if 
tired  with  meditating  in  his  study,  has  only  to  open 
his  door  and  walk  abroad  ;  tranquility  of  mind  attends 
his  steps,  and  pleasure  presents  herself  to  his  view  at 
every  turn.  He  extends  his  hand  with  cordiality  to- 
every  man,  for  he  loves  and  is  beloved  by  every  man 
he  meets  :  he  is  under  no  dread  of  experiencing  the 
disdain  of  an  imperious  Countess  or  a  hs^ughty  Baron, 
proud  of  their  titles  !  no  monied  upstart  drives  over 
him  with  his  coach.  Frontless  vice  dares  not  venture, 
on  the  protection  of  musty  title  deeds,  nor  the  power 
of  a  weighty  purse,  to  oiier  an  indignity  to  modest 
virtue. 

But  in  Paris,  as  well  as  in  every  other  city,  a  man 
who  withdraws  Iiimself  from  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 
will  rxQYiiV  feel  such  sentin:ents  as  these,  while  he  lives 
in  peace  v/ith  his  own  heart,  and  his  nerves  are  not 
weakened  or  unstrung.  It  is  these  defects  that  ren- 
der us  the  sport  of  men's  unworthy  passions  ;  for  to 
a  man  of  weak  nerves,  every  object  is  irritating  and 
displeasing. 

Our  days,  even  under  the  languors  of  a  weak  con- 
stitution, and  surrounded  by  the  most  unpleasant  ob- 
jects, pass  quietly  away  in  the  most  active  scenes  of 
life,  provided  we  fire  at  peace  with  ourselves.  Our  pas- 
sions are  the  gales,  by  the  aid  of  which  man  ought  to 
steer  his  course  across  the  ocean  of  life  ;  for  it  is  the 
passions;  alone,  which  give  motion  to  th^  soul :— but 


200  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

when  they  become  impetuous,  the  vessel  is  in  danger, 
and  runs  a-ground.  Pain  and  grief  find  no  entrance 
into  those  bosoms  that  are  free  from  remorse.  The 
virtuous  forget  the  past,  form  no  idle  speculations  on 
the  future,  ^nd  do  not  refine  away  their  happiness  by . 
thinking  that  what  is  good  may  still  be  better.  Every 
thing  is  much  better  than  we  imagine*  The  anxious 
wishes  of  an, ardent  mind  are  seldom  satisfied  ;  for 
with  such  chamcters  fruition  is  indeed  frequently  ac- 
companied with  discontent.  The  streams  of  content 
must  flow  from  ourselves,  taking  its  source  from  a  de- 
liberate disposition  to  learn  what  is  good,  and  a  deter- 
mined resolution  to  seek  for  and  enjoy  it,  however 
small  the  portion  may  be. 

To  acquire  that  happy  tranquility  which  men  ex- 
pect to  find  in  Solitude,  it  is  not  sufficient  to  regard 
every  object  that  presents  itself  to  their  view,  with  su- 
pineness  or  surprise.  He  who,  without  employment, 
without  having  a  plan  of  conduct  previously  digested 
and  arranged,  hopes  for  happiness  in  Solitude,  will  find 
himself  to  yawn  at  his  cottage  in  tlie  country,  just  as 
often  as  he  did  at  his  mansion  in  town  ;  and  would  do 
much  better  to  employ  himself  in  hewing  wood,  the 
whole  day,  than  to  loiter  about  in  boots  and  spurs.^^- 
But  he  who,  living  in  the  most  profound  Solitude, 
keeps  himself  continually  employed,  will  acquire,  by 
means  of  labour,  true  tranquility  and  happiness. 

PEfRARcii  would  have  found  this  tranquility  in  his 
Solitude  at  Vaucluse,  but  that  his  heart  sighed  so  in- 
cessantly for  his  beloved  X.4t>7?^.  He  was,  however, 
perfectly  acquainted  with  the  art  of  vanquishing  him- 
self. "  I  rise,"  says  he,  "  at  midnight ;  I  go  out  by 
*'  break  of  day.  I  study  in  the  fields,  as  well  as  in 
"  my  chamber.  I  read,  I  write,  I  think.  I  endea- 
"  vour  to  conquer  the  least  disposition  to  indolence  ; 
<^  and  drive  away  sleep,  effeminacy,  and  sensuality, 
^*  I  traverse,  from  morning  till  night,  the  barren 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  201 

"  mountains,  the  humid  vallies,  and  the  deep  caVerns. 
"  I  walk,  accompanied  only  by  my  cares,  along  the 
"  banks  of  my  river,  I  do  not  meet  a  man  to  seduce 
"  me  from  my  path  ;  men  daily  l^ecome  less  annoy- 
"  ing  t^  me  :  for  I  place  them  either  far  before  or 
*'  much  behind  me.  I  moralize  on  the  past  and  delib- 
"  erate  on  the  future.  I  have  found  an  excellent  ex- 
"  pedient  to  induce  a  separation  from  the  world,  I 
*'  attach  myself  to  the  place  of  my  residence  ;  and  I 
"  am  persuaded  that  I  could  form  that  attachment  in 
"  any  place  except  at  Avignon.  In  my  present  resi- 
*^  dence,  at  Vaucluse,  I  find  Athens,  Rome  or  Flor- 
"  ence,  according  as  the  manners  of  the  one  or  of  the 
"  other  best  please  the  disposition  of  my  mind.-— 
"  Here  I  enjoy  all  my  friends,  as  vi^ell  those  with 
"  whom  I  have  lived,  as  those  who  Ijave  entered  the 
<<  vale  of  death  before  me,  and  whom  I  only  know  bj 
«  their  good  works." 

When  we  are  thus  resolved,  and  find  resources  like 
these  within  our  minds,  Solitude  enables  us  to  accom- 
plish whatever  we  please.  FEfRARCH^  however,  was 
not  inclined  to  improve  the  opportunities  which  Soli- 
tude afforded,  because  he  was  in  love.  His  heart, 
therefore,  was  a  stranger  to  repose  ;  and  repose  is, 
certainly,  as  LAVArsR  has  observed,  the  means  of  be- 
ing always  haj^py,  and  of  doing  every  thing  welL 

Employment  will  produce  content  in  the  most 
frightful  desarts.  The  Dairo  of  Japan  banishes  the 
grandees  of  the  empire,  who  incur  his  displeasure,  in- 
to the  island  of  Fatsisio.  The  shores  of  this  island, 
which  was  formerly  inhabited,  are  of  a  surprising 
height.  It  has  no  haven,  is  entirely  barren,  and  its  ac- 
cess so  difficult  that  the  exiles  and  their  provisions 
ai-e  obliged  to  be  landed  by  means  of  cranes.  The 
sole  employment  of  these  unhappy  men,  in  this  mel- 
ancholy residence,  is  to  manufacture  silk  stuffs  and 
gold  tissues,  which  are  so  highly  beautiful  that  they 


202  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

are  not  suffered  to  be  purchased  by  strarger&.  I  con- 
fess that  I  should  not  like  to  fail  under  the  displeasure 
of  the  P^mperour  of  Japan  ;  but  I  nevertheless  con- 
ceive, thut  there  is  more  internal  tranquility  in  the  isl- 
and of  Fatsisio  than  in  the  bosoms  of  the  Eniperour 
aiid  his  whole  court. 

Every  thing-  which  conveys  a  spark  of  comfort  to 
the  soul  of  n^an,  should  be  anxiously  preserved  :  but, 
without  seeking  to  raise  an  eternal  flame,  it  is  only  ne- 
cessary to  take  care  that  the  last  spark  be  not  extin- 
guished. It  is  by  this  means,  that  we  acquire  in  the 
country  that  quietivJe  which  files  the  tumults  of  the 
town,  ailcl  those  advantages  of  which  the  wordly -mind- 
ed have  no  idea. 

What  epicure  ever  enjoyed  so  much  satisfaction  in 
the  midst  of  all  his  splendid  entertainment,  as  Rous- 
seau experienced  in  his  frugal  repasts  I  '*  I  returned 
''  slowly  home,"  says  he,  "  my  mind  in  some  degree 
"  fatigued,  but  with  a  contented  lieart.  I  experience, 
''  on  my  return,  the  most  agreeable  relief,  in  resigning 
"myself  to  the  impression  of  objects,  without  exer- 
"  cising  my  thoughts,  induh.;iiig  my  imagination,  or 
**  doing  any  thing  but  feeling  the  peace  and  happiness 
"  of  my  situation.  I  find  my  cloth  ready  spread  on 
"  my  table  on  my  lawn,  I  eat  my  supper  with  appe- 
"  tite  ih  the  company  of  my  little  family.  No  trace 
**  of  servitude  or  dependence  interrupts  the  love  and 
''  kindness  by  which  we  are  united  :  my  dog  him.self 
"  is  my  friend,  and  not  my  slave  :  we  have  always  the 
"  same  inclinations  ;  but  he  has  never  obeyed  me.— -My 
^'  £^aiety  through  the  whole  evening  testified  that  I  had 
''  lived  alone  all  the  day  :  J  was  very  ditiertnt  when  I 
"  had  seen  company  ;  I  was  seldom  contented  with 
"  others,  and  never  with  myself  ;  and  at  night  sat 
"  either  j^rumblnig  or  silent.  This  remark  is  my 
**  house-keeper's  ;  and  since  she  mentioned  it  to  me, 
**  I  have  found  it  inviuiabiy  trae  from  my  own  obber- 


©V  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAllT.  203 

^*  yations%  At  length,  after  having  taken  a  few  turns 
*'  in  my  garden,  or  sung  some  air  to  the  music  of  my 
<'  spinnet,  I  experience  upon  my  pillow  a  repose  both 
^*  of  body  and  mind  a  hundred  times  more  sweet  thiai 
"  sleep  itself." 

Nature  and  a  tranquil  heart  are  to  the  Divinity  ^ 
more  beautiful  and  magnificent  temple  than  the 
church  of  St.  Peter  at  Rome,  or  the  cathedral  of  St. 
Paul  in  London.  The  most  savage  desart  is  filled  with 
the  immensity  of  the  Ahnighty,  and  his  presence 
sanctifies  the  solitary  hill  upon  which  a  pure  anc} 
peaceful  heart  offers  up  its"^  sacrifice  to  him.  He 
reads  the  hearts  of  all  his  creatures  ;  he  every  where 
hears  the  prayers  of  those  whqse  invocations  are  siur 
cere.  Whether  we  rise,  or  whether  we  descend,  we 
do  not  find  a  grain  of  dust  that  is  not  fiUed  with  hi^ 
spirit.  But  there  are  no  places  which  inspire  ideas 
more  religious  than  those  happy  scites  which,  uniting 
the  most  sublirae  and  beautiful  appea!'anccs  of  nature, 
ravish  the  heart,  and  impress  it  with- those  voluptuous 
sensations  wliich  excite  in  the  pnind  the  selilimcnts  of 
love,  admiratiori,  and  repose. 

I  nev^r  recall  to  my  memory  without  feeling  the 
softest  emotion-],  tlie  sublime  and  magniaceni  scene 
which  I  enjoyed  in  the  year  1775,  whep,  during  anne 
day,  accompanied  by  my  friend  Lavatex,  I  ascended 
the  terrace  of  the  house  he  then  inhabited,  the  house 
in  which  he  was  born  and  educated.  In  v^hatever  di- 
rection I  turned  my  eyes,  whether  v/alklng  or  sitting, 
I  experienced  nearly  the  same  sensation  which  Bry- 
DONE  describes  hirnself  to  have  felt  upon  the  top  of 
^tna*.     I  included  in  one  view  the  city  of  Zurich,  the 

^  Brtdone  gays,  **  In  proportion  as  we  fire  raised  above 
**  the  habitations  of  men,  all  low  and  vulgar  sentiments 
*^  are  left  behind  ;  and  the  soul,  in  approachir.g  the  sethe-» 
f ^  rial  regions,  shakes  oif  its  earthly  affections,  and  already 
ff  contracts  something  of  their  invariable  purity*" 


S04  THE  IKFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

smiling  country  which  surrounds  it,  its  tranquil  and 
expanded  hike,  the  high  mountains,  covered  with  frost 
and  snow,  lifting  their  majestic  heads  to  Heaven.  A 
divine  tranquility  surrounded  me  while  I  beheld  this 
scene. 

Upon  this  terrace  I  discovered  the  mystery,  which 
enabled  Lavatkr,  v/hile  he  enjoyed  so  delicious  a  sen- 
sation of  his  existence  and  his  powers,  to  walk  calmly 
through  the  streets  of  Zurich,  exposed  to  the  observa- 
tions of  the  criticks  of  that  city,  who  were  in  the  daily 
practice  of  venting  their  abuse  against  him,  and  of 
v/hom  he  so  humbly  asked  pardon  for  the  innocence 
of  his  life,  which  at  least,  according  to  the  laws,  they 
were  unable  to  destroy. 

Upon  this  terrace  I  discovered  the  cause  of  his  still 
cherishing  with  such  unfeigned  tenderness  his  impla- 
cable enemies,  those  learned  critics  of  Zurich  whose 
rage  the  sound  of  his  name  was  sufficient  to  excite ; 
who  felt  with  the  greatest  repugnance  every  thing  that 
was  praise-worthy  in  his  character,  and  exposed  with 
the  highest  feeling  of  joy  those  foibles  and  defects  from 
which  no  meai  is  entirely  free  ;  who  could  not  listen 
without  fury  when  those  merits  which  he  evidently 
possessed  were  praised,  or  the  demerits  which  they 
were  unable  to  prove  were  extenuated  ;  v/ho  rejected 
with  aversion  all  the  truths  wliich  appeared  to  be  in 
his  favour,  and  eagerly  listened,  with  an  air  of  triumph, 
to  all  the  calumnies  which  tended  to  his  dishonour  ; 
who  are  humbled  by  his  glory,  as  much  as  they  can 
possibly  be  degraded  by  their  own  infamy  ;  and  who 
have  the  accomplishment  of  his  disgrace  as  much  at 
heart  as  their  ov/n  personal  advantage  ;  in  whose 
breasts  Lavater*s  happiness  becomes  a  source  of 
misery,  and  his  misfortunes  a  fountain  of  joy  ;  who  af- 
fect silence  on  the  virtues  they  are  conscious  he  pos- 
sesses, and  loudly  aggravate  defects  which  they  indus- 
triously circulate  by-  every  possible  means;  rather  in- 


€N  THE    MIND   AND   THE   HEART.  205 

deed  to  their  own  injury,  than  to-liis  disgrace,  for  by 
these  means  they  frequently  increase  the  glory  which 
they  seek  to  extinguish  ;  who  insidiously  desire  the 
impartial  stranger  to  see  the  man,  and  judge  for  him- 
self ;  and  have,  almost  uniformly,  the  mortification  of 
perceiving,  that  Lavater  is  found  to  possess  a  cha- 
racter diametrically  opposite  to  that  which  the  enven- 
omed tongues  and  pens  of  his  enemies  at  Zurich  hare 
represented. 

At  the  village  of  Richterswyl,  a  few  leagues  from 
Zurich,  in  a  situation  still  more  delicious  and  serene 
than  even  that  of  Lavater,  surrounded  by  every  ob- 
ject the  most  smiling,  beautiful  and  sublime  thatSv/is- 
serland  presents,  dwells  a  celebrated  physician.  His 
soul  is  as  tranquil  and  sublime  as  the  scene  of  nature 
■^vhich  surrounds  him.  His  habitation  is  the  temple  of 
health,  friendship,  and  every  peaceful  virtue.  The 
village  is  situated  on  the  borders  of  the  lake,  at  a  place 
where  two  projecting  points  of  land  form  a  natural 
bay  of  nearly  half  a  league.  On  the  opposite  shores, 
the  lake,  which  is  not  quite  a  league  in  extent,  is  en- 
closed, from  the  north  to  the  east  by  pleasant  hills, 
covered  with  vine  leaves,  intermixed  with  fertile 
meadov/s,  orchards,  fields,  groves  and  thickets,  with 
little  villages,  churches,  villas,  and  cottages,  scattered 
up  and  down  the  scene. 

A  wide  and  magnificent  amphitheatre,  which  no 
artist  has  yet  ventured  to  paint  except  in  detached 
scenes,  opens  itself  from  the  cast  to  the  south.  The 
view  tow^ards  the  higher  part  of  the  lake,  which  on  this 
side  is  four  leagues  long,  presents  to  the  eye  points  of 
land,  distant  islands,  the  little  town  of  Rapperswil 
built  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  the  bridge  of  which  extends 
itself  from  one  side  of  the  lake  to  the  other.  Beyond 
the  town,  the  inexhaustible  valley  rises  in  a  half  cir- 
cle to  the  sight.  Upon  the  first  ground-plot  is  a  peak 
of  land,  with  hills  about  half  a  league  distant  from  each 

s 


b 


206  THE  II^^FLUEKCE   O?    SOLITUDE 

Other ;  and  behind  these  rise  a  range  of  mountains, 
covered  with  trees  and  verdure,  and  interspersed  with 
villages  and  detached  houses.  In  the  back  ground  are 
discovered  the  fertile  and  niajestick  Alps,  twisted  one 
among  the  other,  and  exhibiting  alternate  shsidows  of 
the  lightest  and  darkest  azure.  Behind  these  Alps, 
rocks,  coTered  with  eternal  snows,  rear  their  heads  to 
the  clouds.  Towards  the  south,  the  opening  of  the 
amphitheatre  is  continued  by  a  new  chain  of  moun- 
tains. A  scene  thus  enriched,  always  appears  new, 
rornantick,  and  incomparable. 

The  mountains  extend  themselves  from  the  south 
to  the  west  :  the  village  of  Richterswyl  is  situated  at 
their  feet,  upon  the  banks  of  the  lake  :  deep  forests 
of  firs  cover  the  summit,  and  the  middle  Is  filled  with 
fruit  trees,  interspersed  with  rich  fallows  and  fertile 
pastures,  among  which,  at  certain  distances,  a  few 
houses  are  scattered.  The  village  itself  is  neat,  the 
streets  are  paved,  and  the  houses,  built  of  stone,  are 
painted  on  the  outsides.  Around  the  village  are  walks, 
formed  on  the  banks  of  the  lake,  or  cut  through  shady 
forests  to  the  hills  ;  and  on  every  side,  scenes,  beauti- 
ful or  sublime,  strike  the  eye  while  they  ravish  the 
heart  of  the  admiiing  traveller.  He  stops,  and  con- 
templates with  eager  joy  these  accumulated  beauties  ; 
his  bosom  swells  with  excess  of  pleasure  ;  and  his 
breath  continues  for  a  time  suspended,  as  if  fearful  of 
interrupting  the  fulness  of  his  delight.  Every  acre  of 
this  charming  country  is  in  the  highest  degree  of  cul« 
tivation  and  improvement.  No  part  of  it  is  suffered 
to  lie  untilled  ;  every  hand  is  at  work  ;  and  men,  wo- 
men, and  children,  from  infancy  to  age,  are  all  usefully 
employed. 

The  two  houses  of  the  physician  are  each  of  them 
surrounded  by  a  garden  ;  and,  although  situated  in 
the  middle  of  the  village,  are  as  rural  and  sequestered 
as  if  they  had  been  built  in  the  heart  of  the  country. 


ON  THE  MIND  AND  THE  HEART.       2a7 

Through  the  gardens,  and  in  view  of  the  chamber  of 
my  dear  friend,  flows  a  limpid  stream,  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  which  is  the  great  road,  where,  during  a 
succession  of  ages,  a  crowd  of  pilgrims  have  ahnost 
daily  pif^sed,  in  their  way  to  the  convent  of  the  Her- 
mitage. From  these  houses  and  gardens,  at  about 
the  distance  of  a  league,  you  behold,  towards  the 
south,  the  majestick  Ezeberg  rear  its  head  ;  black  for- 
t  sts  conceal  its  top  ;  while  below,  on  the  declivity  of 
the  hill,  hangs  a  village,  Wich  a  beautiful  church,  on 
the  steeple  of  which  the  sun  suspends  its  departing 
rays  every  evening,  before  his  course  is  fmished.  In 
the  front  is  the  lake  of  Zurich,  whose  unruIBed  waters 
are  secured  from  the  violence  of  tempests,  and  v/hosc 
transparent  surface  reflects  the  beauties  of  its  delight- 
ful banks. 

Duii ng  the  silence  ^  night,  if  you  repair  to  the 
chamber  window,  or  indulge  in  a  lonely  walkthrough 
:the  gardens,  to  taste  the  refreshing  scents  which  ex- 
hale from  the  surrounding  flow^ers,  while  the  moon, 
rising  above  the  mountains,  reflects  on  the  expanse  of 
the  lake,  a  broad  beam  of  light  ;  you  hear,  during" 
this  awful  sleep  of  nature,  the  sound  of  the  village 
dock  echoing  from  the  opposite  shores  ;  and  on  the 
Richtersvvyl  side,  the  shrill  proclamations  of  the 
w^atchme  1,  blended  Vvith  the  barkings^of  the  faithful 
dog.  A«  a  distance,  you  hear  the  little  boats  softly 
gliding  down  the  stream,  dividing  the  water  with  thc|r 
oars  ;  you  perceive  them  cross  the  moon's  translucent 
beam,  and  play  among  the  sparkling  waves.  On 
viewing  the  Lake  of  Geneva  in  its  full  extent,  the 
majesty  of  such  a  sublime  picture  strikes  the  specta^ 
tor  dumb  ;  he  thinks  that  he  has  discovered  the  chvf 
d'ceiivre  of  creation  ;  but  here,  near  the  Lake  of  Zu- 
rich at  Richtersv/yl,  the  objects,  ];eing  upon  a  small 
scale,  are  more  soft,  agreeable,  and  touching. 

Riches  and  luxury  are  no  where  to  be  seen  in  the 


208  THE  INFLUENCE   OF    SOLITUDE 

habitation  of  this  philanthropist.  You  are  there  seat- 
ed upon  matted  chairs.  He  writes  upon  tables  work- 
ed from  the  wood  of  the  country  ;  and  he  and  his 
friends  eat  on  earthen  plates.  Neatness  and  conven- 
ience reign  throughout.  Large  collections  of  drawings, 
paintings  and  engravings,  are  his  sole  expence.  The 
iirst  beams  of  Aurora  light  the  little  chamber  where 
this  philosophick  sage  sleeps  in  peaceful  repose,  and 
opens  his  eyes  to  every  new  day.  Rising  from  his 
bed,  he  is  saluted  by  the  cooings  of  the  turtle  doves, 
and  the  morning  song  of  birds  who  sleep  with  him  in 
an  adjoining  chamber. 

The  first  hour  of  the  morning,  and  the  last  at  night, 
are  sacred  to  himself ;  but  he  devotes  all  the  interme- 
diate hours  of  the  day  to  the  assistance  of  a  diseased 
and  afflicted  multitude,  who  daily  attend  him  for  ad- 
vice and  assistance.  The  benevolent  exercise  of  his 
profession  engrosses  every  moment  of  his  life,  but  it 
also  constitutes  his  happiness  and  joy.  All  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  mountains  of  Switzerland,  as  w^ell  as  of 
the  vallies  of  the  Alps,  resort  to  his  house,  and  vainly 
seek  for  language  to  express  the  grateful  feelings  of 
their  hearts.  They  are  persuaded  that  the  Doctor 
sees  and  knows  every  thing  ;  they  answer  his  ques- 
tions with  frankness  and  fidelity  ;  they  listen  to  his 
•words,  treasure  up  his  advice  like  grains  of  gold,  and 
leave  him  with  more  regret,  consolation,  hope,  and 
virtuous  resolution,  than  they  quit  their  confessors  at 
the  Hermitage.  After  a  day  spent  in  this  manner, 
can  it  be  imagined  that  any  thing  is  wanting  to  com- 
plete the  happiness  of  this  friend  of  mankind  ?  Yes  ; 
when  a  simple  and  ingenuous  female,  who  had  trem- 
bled with  fear  for  the  safety  of  a  beloved  husband, 
enters  his  chamber,  and  seizing  him  fondly  by  the 
hand,  exclaims,  "  My  husband,  sir,  was  very  ill  when 
<«  first  I  came  to  you  ;  but  in  the  space  of  two  days 
<<  he  quite  recovered.    Oh  !  my  dear  Sir,  I  am  under 


ON  tHE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  209 

^^  the  greatest  obligations  to- you."  This  philanthro- 
pic character  feels  that  which  ought  to  fill  the  bosom 
of  a  monarch,  in  the  moment  when  he  confers  happi- 
ness on  his  people. 

Of  this  description  is  the  country  of  Swisserland^ 
where  Doctor  Hotze,- the  ablest  physician  of  the  pre- 
sent age,  resides  :  a  physician  and  philosopher,  whose 
pervading  geiiius,  profound  judg;ement,  and  great  ex- 
perience, have  placed  him  with  Tissot  Hixzel,  the 
deare&t  friends  of  my  heart.  It  is  in  this  manner  he 
passes  the  hours  of  his  life,;  all  uniform,  and  all  of 
them  happy  :  he  reserves,  indeed,  only  two  hours  of 
each  day  to  himself,  and  devotes  the  rest  to  the  relief 
of  the  unfortunate,  who  daily  visit  him  in  this  celestial 
region.  His  mind,  active  and  full  of  vigour,  never 
seeks  repose  ;  but  there  is  a  divine  quietude  dwells 
within  his  heart,  Alas  !  tliere  are  no  such  characters 
10  be  found  in  a  Court,  Individuals,  however,  of  eve- 
ry description,  have  it  in  their  power  to  taste  an  equal 
degree  of  happiness,  although  they  may  not  have  the 
opportunity  of  residing  amidst  scenes  so  delightful  as 
those  which  the  situation  of  my  beloved  Hotze 
at  Richterswyl,  the  Convent  of  Capuchins  near  Alba- 
no,  or  the  mansion  of  my  Sovereign  at  Windsor, 
affords. 

The  man  who  does  not  ask  for  more  enjoyments 
than  he  possesses,  is  completely  happy.  Such  a 
felicity  is  easily  found  at  Richterswyl,  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Lake  of  Zurich  ;  but  it  may  be  also  more 
easily  be  found  than  is  generally  imagined,  even  in  such 
a  chamber  as  that  in  wliich  I  am  now  writing  this 
Treatise  upon  Solitude,  where,  during  seven  years,  I 
had  nothing  to  look  at  but  some  broken  tiles,  and  a 
vane  upon  the  spire  of  an  old  church. 

Content  must  always  derive  its  source  from  the 
heart  ;  and  in  Solitude  the  bosom  dilates  more  easily 
to  receive  it,  witii  all  the  virtues  by  which  it  is  accom- 
S    2 


210  THE  INFLUENCE    ©F    SOLITUDE 

panled.  How  good,  how  affectionate  does  the  heart 
become,  on  the  border  of  a  clear  spring,  or  in  the  en- 
joyment of  a  calm  repose,  under  the  shades  of  a 
branching  pine  I  In  Sohtude,  the  tranquility  of  nature 
glides  into  the  heart  ;  but  in  Society,  we  find  much 
mor^  occasion  to  fly  from  ourselves  than  from  others. 
To  be  at  peace  with  ourselves,  we  must  be  in  concord 
with  all  mankind.  While  the  heart  is  tranquil,  the 
raind  considers  men  and  things  in  the  most  favourable 
and  pleasing  point  of  view.  In  rural  retirements, 
where  it  is  open  only  to  agreeable  sensations  ;  we  learn 
to  love  our  fellow-creatures.  While  all  nature  smiles 
around  us,  and  our  souls  overflow  with  benevolence, 
we  wish  for  more  hearts  than  one  to  participate  in  our 
happiness. 

By  mild  and  peaceful  dispositions,  therefore,  the 
felicities  of  a  domestick  life  ai^e  relished  in  a  much 
higher  degree  in  rural  retirement,  than  in  any  other 
situation  whatever.  The  most  splendid  courts  in 
Europe  afford  no  joys  equal  to  these  ;  and  their  vain 
pleasures  can  never  assuage  the  justifiable  grief  of  him 
who,  contrary  to  his  inclination,  feels  himself  torn  from 
such  a  felicity,  dragged  into  the  palaces  of  kings,  and 
obliged  to  conform  to  the  frivolous  life  practised  there, 
where  people  do  nothing  but  game  and  yawn,  arid 
among  whom  the  reciprocal  communication  of  lan- 
guors, hatred,  envy,  flattery,  and  calumny  alone  pre- 
vails.* 

It  is  in  rural  life  alone  that  true  pleasures,  the  love, 
trie  honour,  and  the  chaste  manners  of  ancient  days 

*  Madame  de  Maintenon  wrote  frcm  Marli  to 
Madame  de  Caylus,  "  We  pass  our  lives  here  in  a 
^^  very  singular  manner.  Wit,  gallantry,  ard  cheer ful- 
'*  liess  should  prevail ;  but  of  all  these  qualities,  we  are 
**  totally  destitute  ;  we  game,  yawn,  fatigue  ourselves,  re- 
"  ciprocally  receive  and  conimunicate  vexations^  hate, 
^'  enyy,  carets,  and  calumniate  each  otliert'* 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  211 

are  revived.  Rousseau,  therefore,  says  with  great 
truth  to  the  inhabitants  of  cities,  that  the  country  af- 
fords pleasures  which  they  do  not  even  suspect  ;  that 
these  pleasures  are  less  insipid,  less  unpolished  than  • 
they  conceive  ;  that  taste,  variety,  and  delicacy  may 
be  enjoyed  there  ;  that  a  man  of  merit,  who  retires 
with  his  family  into  the  country,  and  turns  farmer, 
will  find  his  days  pass  as  pleasantly  as  in  the  most 
brilliant  assemblies  ;  that  a  good  housewife  in  the 
country  may  also  be  a  charming  woman,  ^  woman 
adorned  with  every  agreeable  quahfication,  and  possess 
graces  much  more  captivating  than  all  those  prim  and 
affected  females  whom  we  see  in  tov/ns. 

The  mind,  under  refreshing  shades,  in  agreeable 
vallies,  and  delightful  retreats,  forgets  all  the  un- 
pleasant circumstances  it  encountered  in  the  world. 
The  most  profligate  and  wicked  characters  are  no 
longer  remembered  in  society,  when  they  are  no  long- 
er seen.  It  is  only  in  the  tumultuous  scenes  of  civil 
life,  and  under  the  heavy  yoke  of  subordination,  that 
the  continual  shock  of,reason  and  good  sense,  against 
the  stupidity  of  those  who  govern,  spreads  a  torrent  of 
miseries  over  human  life.  Fools  in  pov/er  render  the 
lives  of  their  inferiors  bitter,  poison  their  pleasures, 
overturn  all  social  order,  spread  thorns  in  the  path  of 
those  v/ho  have  more  understanding  than  themselves, 
and  make  this  world  a  vale  of  discouragement,  iudig- 
nation  and  tears.  Oh  !  that  men  of  honour  at  court, 
brave  and  skilful  generalst  able  agents,  should  have 
a  right  to  exclaim  with  the  philosopher,  "  Had  I  but 
"  the  wings  of  a  dove,  that  I  might  fly  where  my  in- 
"  clination  leads  me,  and  fix  my  dwelling  as  chance 
"  might  direct,  I  would  take  a  distant  Sight,  and  con- 
"  tinue  in  the  desart  !  I  would  hasten  to  escape  from 
<*  the  tempest  ;  for  I  perceive  hypocrisy,  malice, 
«'  falsehood,  and  disease,  prevail  at  court;  in  the  army^ 
<<  and  in  the  city.'* 


gl2  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

Stupidity,  when  it  I?as  gained  credit  and  authority, 
becomes  more  dangerous  and  hurtful  than  any  other 
quaUty  ;  it  always  inclines  to  render  every  thing  as 
little  as  itself,  gives  to  every  thing  a  false  name,  and 
mistakes  every  character  for  the  opposite  to  what  it 
really  is  ;  in  a  word,  stupidity  always  calls  white  black, 
and  black  white.  Men  of  frank,  honest,  liberal  dispo- 
sitions, therefore,  if  they  would  escape  from  his  per- 
secution, must  learn  all  his  tricks  and  all  his  turnings, 
as  well  as  the  fox  of  Saadi,  the  Indian  fabulist. 

A  person  one  day  observing  a  fox  running  with 
great  speed  towards  his  hole,  called  out  to  him  : — 
"  Reynard  :  where  are  you  running;'  in  so  great  ahur- 
"  ry  ?  Have  you  done  any  mischief  for  v/hich  you 
"  are  fearfulof  being  punished  ?"  ''  No  Sir,"  replied 
the  fox,  "  my  conscience  is  clear,  and  does  not  re- 
«'  proach  me  with  any  thing  ;  but  I  }'»ave  just  over- 
"  heard  the  hunters  wish  that  they  had  a  Camel  to 
"  hunt  this  morning." — "  Well  ;  but  how  does  that 
"  concern  you  ?  You  are  not  a  Camel." — "  Oh  !  Sir," 
replied  the  fox,  "  sagacious  heads  always  have  ene- 
"  mies.  If  a^y  one  should  point  me  out  to  the 
«  huntsmen,  and  say,  "  There  runs  a  Camel,"  those 
«  gentlemen  would  immediately  seize  me,  and  load 
*'  me  with  chains,  without  once  enquiring  whether  I 
"  was  in  fact  the  kind  of  animal  the  informer  had  de- 
«  scribed  me  to  be." 

Reynard  was  perfectly  right  in  his  observation  : 
but  it  is  lamentable  that  men  should  be  wicked  in  pro- 
portion as  they  are  stupid,  or  that  they  should  be 
wicked  only  because  they  are  envious.  If  I  should 
ever  become  the  object  of  their  wrath,  becatvse  they 
conceived  that  I  enjoyed  more  happiness  than  them- 
selves, and  it  were  impossible  for  me  to  escape  from 
their  persecutions,  I  would  only  revenge  myself  by 
letting  them  perceive  that  no  man  living  is  to  me  an 
object  of  scandal. 


ON  THE    MIND    AND   THE    HEART.  213 

Nothing  can  wound  the  self-love  of  that  breast 
which  feels  no  desire  for  more  than  it  possesses^ 
The  calm  temper  which  results  from  a  life  simple, 
regular  and  serene,  guards  the  heart  against  the  ex- 
cess of  desire.  By  living  in  continual  communion 
with  ourselves,  we  unavoidably  perceive  how  deficient 
we  are  in  many  of  those  qualifications,  which,  in  the 
opinion  of  others,  we  are  supposed  to  possess  ;  the 
advantages  we  gain,  as  well  as  all  the  happiness  we 
feel,  appear,  in  consequence,  to  be  the  effect  of  favours 
conferred  on  us.  This  reason  alone  renders  it  impos- 
sible that  we  should  repine  at  the  happiness  of  anoth- 
er ;  for  candour  will  force  a  man  who  lives  continually 
by  himself,  and  acts  with  sincerity  of  heart,  to  reflect 
upon  his  own  defects,  and  to  do  justice  to  the  superior 
merit  of  other  men. 

"  I  should  wish  to  end  my  days  in  the  delightful 
"  Solitudes  of  Lausanne,"  says  a  French  historian  of 
that  province,  "  far  retired  from  the  tumultuous  scenes 
"  of  the  world,  from  avarice,  and  from  deceit  ;  in 
^<  those  Solitudes,  where  a  thousand  innocent  pleasures 
"  are  enjoyed  and  renewed  without  end  :  there  we  es- 
"  cape  from  profligate  discourse,  from  unmeaning 
"  chatter,  from  envy,  detraction  and  jealousy.  Upon 
*'  those  smiling  plains,  the  extent  of  wliich  th«  as- 
"  tonished  eye  is  incapable  of  measuring,  it  is  impos- 
"  sible  to  see,  without  admiring  the  goodness  of  the 
"  Divine  Creator  ;  so  many  different  animals  wan- 
<'  dering  peaceably  among  each  other  ;  so  many 
"  birds  making  the  woods  re-echo  to  their  songs  ;  so 
"  many  wonders  of  nature,  which  invite  the  mind  to 
<<  silent  contemplation." 

It  appears  to  me,  that  to  whatever  place  in  Germa- 
ny you  turn  your  eyes,  you  find  in  every  peaceful 
family,  as  in  the  Sohtudes  of  Lausanne,  more  pure 
and  genuine  pleasures  than  are  ever  seen  in  fashiona- 
ble life.    The  industrious  citizen  who  returns  in  the 


I 


^14  THE  INFLtTENCE    OT    SOLITUDE 

evening  to  bis  wife  and  eliiidren,  after  having  honour- 
ably performed  the  labours  of  th^  day,  is  without 
doubt  as  contented  as  any  courtier.  If  the  voice  of 
the  publick  and  his  fellow-citizens  do  not  render  to  a 
man  of  business  the  justice,  esteem,  and  honour, 
which  his  character  merits  ;  if  his  zeal  and  g'ood 
works  meet  with  neglect,  and  are  treated  with  ingra- 
titude and  contempt ;  his  mind  will  soon  forget  the 
injustice,  when  he  returns  to  the  bosom  of  his  happy 
family,  sees  their  arms  open  ready  to  receive  him,  and 
obtains  from  them  the  praise  and  approbation  which  he 
truly  merits.  With  what  delight  his  heart  feels  the 
value  of  their  fondness  and  affection  !  If  the  eclat,  of 
fashionable  life,  the  splendour  of  courts,  the  triumph 
of  power  and  grandeur,  have  left  his  bosom  cold  and 
comfortless  ;  if  the  base  practices  of  fraud,  falsehood, 
hypocrisy,  and  puerile  vanities,  have  irritated  and 
soured  his  mind  ;  he  no  sooner  mixes  in  the  circle  of 
those  whom  he  cherishes,  than  a  genial  warmth  re- 
animates his  dejected  heart,  the  tenderest  sentiments 
inspire  his  soul  with  com^age,  and  the  truth,  freedom, 
probity,  and  innocence  by  which  he  is  surrounded,  re- 
concile him  to  the  lot  of  humanity.  If,  on  the  con- 
trary, he  should  enjoy  a  more  brillinnt  situation,  be 
the  favourite  of  a  minister,  the  companion  of  the  great, 
loved  by  the  women,  and  admired  in  every  publick 
place  as  the  leader  of  the  fashion  ;  should  liis  station 
be  high,  and  his  fortunes  rich,  but  his  dwelling  prove 
the  seat  of  discord  and  jealousy,  and  the  bosom  of  his 
family  a  stranger  to  that  peace  which  the  w^ise  and 
virtuous  taste  imder  a  roof  of  thatch,  v^ould  all  these 
dazzling  pleasures  compensate  for  this  irreparable 
loss  ? 

These  are  my  sentiments  on  the  advantages  which 
Solitude  possesses  to  reconcile  us  to  the  lot  of  human- 
ity, and  the  practices  of  the  world  ;  but  I  shall  here 
only  cite  the  words  of  another — the  words  of  a  doctor 


ON  THB    MIND    AND    THE    HSAUT,  215 

of  divinity,  of  the  same  tenets  with  myself — a  judi- 
cious theoligian,  who  does  not  mculcate  imperious  doc- 
trines, or  propagate  a  religion  which  cfFendsthe  heart. 
They  are  the  words  of  his  sermon  upon  domestick 
happiness,  of  that  incomparable  discourse  which  nien 
of  every  description  ought  to  read,  2  swell  as  all  the 
other  sermons  of  Zollikofer, 

**  Solitude,*'  says  this  divine,  "  secures  us  from  the 
^^  aspersions  of  light  and  fiivolous  minds  :  from  the 
<<  unjust  contempt  and  harsh  judgement  of  the  envious 
<'  — preserves  us  from  the  afflicting  spectacle  of  fol- 
'^  lies,  crimes  and  misery,  which  so  frequently  disgra- 
f«  cesthe  theatre  of  active  and  social  life  ;  extinguishes 
«  the  fire  of  those  passions  which  are  too  lively  and 
f«  ardent  ;  and  establishes  peace  in  our  hearts/* 

These  are  the  sentiments  of  my  beloved  Zollihq* 
FER — the  truth  of  which  I  have  experienced.  When 
my  enefaies  conceived  that  accidents,  however  trifling, 
would  trouble  my  repose-— when  I  was  told  with  what 
satisfaction  the  coteries  would  hear  of  my  distress,  that 
les  belles  dames  would  leap  for  joy,  and  form  a  cluster 
round  the  man  who  detailed  the  injuries  I  had  receiv- 
ed, and  those  vrhich  were  yet  in  store  for  mc — I  said 
to  myself  "  Although  my  enemies  should  have  sworn 
^^  to  afflict  me  with  a  thousand  deaths,  what  harm  can 
"  they  really  do  me  ?  What  can  epigrams  and  plea- 
^  santries  prove  ?  What  sting  do  these  satirical  en- 
"  gravings  carry,  which  I  have  taken  the  pains  to  cir- 
"  culate  through  every  part  of  Swisscrland  and  Ger- 
«  many  ?" 

The  thorns  over  which  the  steady  foot  walks  un- 
hurt, or  kicks  from  beneath  it  with  contempt,  inflict 
wounds  and  ulcers  only  upon  effeminate  minds,  who 
feel  that  as  a  serious  injury  which  others  think  noth- 
ing of  Characters  of  this  description  require  to  be 
treated,  like  the  flowers  of  young  plants,  v.^ith  delicacy 
^d  attention  j  and  cannot  bear  the  touch  of  rude  ar^ 


216  THE  INFLUENCE   OF   SOLITUDE 

violent  hands.  But  he  who  has  exercised  his  powers 
in  the  greatest  dangers,  and  has  combated  with  adver- 
sity ;  who  feels  his  soul  superior  to  the  false  opinions 
and  prejudices  of  the  world  ;  neither  sees  nor  feels  .., 
the  blow — he  resigns  trifles  to  the  narrow  minds  which 
they  occupy,  and  looks  down  with  courage  and  con- 
tempt upon  the  vain  boastings  of  such  miserable  in- 
sects. 

To  forget  the  fury  of  our  enemies,  the  assistance  of 
^oft  zephyrs,  clear  springs,  well  stored  rivers,  thick 
forests,  refreshing  grottos,  \^rdant  banks,  or  fields 
adorned  with  flov/ers,  is  not  always  necessary.  Oh  I 
how  soon,  in  the  tj*anquility  of  retircnnerjrt,  every  an- 
tipathy is  obliterated  1  All  the  little  crosses  of  life,  all 
the  obloquies,  every  injustice,  every  low  and  trifling 
care,  vanish  like  smoke  betore  him  who  has  courage  to 
live  according  to  his  own  taste  and  inclination.  That 
which  we  do  voluntarily  is  always  more  •greeable 
than  that  v/hich  we  do  by  compulsion.  The  restraints 
of  the  world,  and  the  slavery  of  society,  alone  can 
poison  the  pleasures  of  free  minds,  deprive  them  of 
every  satisfaction,  content  and  power,  even  when  pla- 
ced in  a  sphere  of  elegance,  easy  in  fortune,  and  sur- 
rounded by  abundance. 

Solitude,  therefore,  not  only  brings  quietude  to  the 
heart,  renders  it  kind  and  virtuous,  and  raises  it  above 
the  malevolence  of  envy,  wickedness,  and  stupidity, 
but  affords  advantages  still  more  valuable.  Liberty, 
true  liberty,  is  no  where  so  easily  found  as  in  a  distant 
retirement  from  the  tumults  of  men  and  every  forced 
connection  wi,th  the  world.  It  has  been  truly  said, 
that  in  Solitude  Man  recovers  from  that  distraction 
which  had  torn  him  from  himself ;  that  he  feels  in 
his  mind  a  clear  and  intimate  knowledge  of  what  he 
was,  and  of  what  he  had  been  ;  that  he  lives  more 
within  himself  and  for  himself  than  in  external  objects  ; 
Jhat  he  enters  into  th^  state  of  nature  aiid  freedom  i 


©N  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  217 

no  longer  plays  an  artificial  part,  no  longer 
represents  a  different  personage,  but  thinks,  speaks, 
and  acts  according  to  his  proper  character  and  senti^ 
inents  ;  that  he  discovers  the  whole  extent  of  his  na- 
ture, and  does  not  act  beyond  it  ;  that  he  no  longer 
dreads  a  severe  master,  an  imperious  tyrant  ;  that  he 
jjdicules  no  one,  and  is  himself  proof  against  the  shafts 
of  calumny  ;  that  neither  the  constraints  of  business 
nor  the  ceremonies  of  fashion  disquiet  his  mind  ;  but, 
breaking  through  the  shackles  of  servile  habit  and  ar- 
bitrary custom,  he  thinks  with  confidence  and  cour- 
age, and  the  sensibilitiesof  his  heart  resign  themselves 
to  the  sentiments  of  his  mind. 

Madame  ^e  Staal  considered  it  as  a  great  and 
vulgar  errour  to  suppose  that  freedom  ancj  hberty 
could  be  enjoyed  at  court  ;  where,  even  in  the  most 
minute  actions  of  our  lives,  we  are  obliged  to  observe 
so  many  different  things  ;  where  it  is  impossible  to 
think  aloud  ;  where  our  sentiments  must  be  regulated 
by  the  circumstances  of  those  around  us  ;  where  eve- 
ry person  we  approach  seems-to  possess  the  right  of 
scrutinizhig  our  characters  ;  and  where  we  never  have 
the  smallest  enjoyment  of  ourselves.  "  The  enjoy- 
<'  ment  of  one's-self,"  says  she,  "  can  only  be  foiuid 
^f  in  Solitude.  It  was  within  the  v/alls  of  the  Bastile 
*'  that  I  first  became  acquainted  with  myself." 

Men  of  liberal  minds  are  as  ill  qualified  by  nature  to 
be  chamberlains,  and  at  the  head  of  the  etiquette  of  a 
court,  as  women  are  to  be  reiigieiises.  The  courtier 
is  fearful  of  every  thing  he  sees,  is  always  upon  the. 
watch,  incessantly  tormented  by  an  everlasting  sua-* 
picion  ;  yet  notwithstanding  all  th.is,  he  must  preserve 
the  face  of  serenity  and  satisfaction  ;  and,  like  that 
old  woman,  he  always  lights  one  taper  to  Michael  the 
Archangel  and  another  to  the  Devil,  because  he  does 
not  know  for  which  of  them  he  may  have  the  most 
occasion. 


I 


S18  THE    INFLUEXCK  OF    SOLITUDE 

Such  precautions  and  constraints  are  insupportable 
to  every  man  who  is  not  formed  by  nature  for  a  cour- 
tier. In  situations  therefore  less  connected  with  the 
\vorld,  men  of  liberal  minds,  sound  understandings, 
and  active  dispositions,  break  all  the  chains  by  which 
ihey  are  vithheid.  To  find  any  pleasure  in  the  fumes 
of  Uishion,  it  is  necessary  to  have  been  trained  up  in 
the  habits  of  a  court.  The  defect  of  judgement  which 
reigns  in  courts,  without  doubt  magnifies  the  most 
trifling  details  into  matters  of  high  importance  ;  and 
the  long  constraint  which  the  soul  there  endures, 
makes  many  things  appear  easy  to  a  courtier,  which, 
fi)V  want  of  habit,  would  carry  torment  to  the  bosom 
of  another.  Who  has  not  experienced  what  it  is  to 
be  forced  to  remain  fixed  to  one's  chair,  and  to  talk  a 
wliole  evening,  even  in  common  society,  without 
knowing  on  what  subject  to  converse,  and  of  course 
without  being  able  to  say  any  thing  ?  Who  has  not 
occasionally  found  himself  in  company  with  those  who 
willingly  listen  to  sensible  conversation,  but  never  con- 
tribute a  single  idea  to  the  promotion  of  it  themselves  ? 
Who  has  not  seen  his  thoughts  fall  upon  a  mind  so 
barren,  that  they  produce  no  return  ;  and  slide  through 
the  ears  of  his  auditors  like  water  upon  cil-cloth  ? 

How  many  men  of  contemplative  minds  are  the 
slaves  of  fools  and  madmen  1  How  many  rational  be-* 
ings  pass  their  lives  in  bondage,  by  being  unfortunate- 
ly attached  to  a  worthless  faction  1  How  many  men  of 
excellent  understandings  are  condemned  to  perform  a 
pitiful  part  in  many  provincial  towns  !  The  company 
of  a  man  who  laughs  at  every  thing  that  is  honourable, 
and  rejects  those  sentiments  which  lead  to  love  and 
esteem,  soon  becomes  insupportable.  There  are  no 
w^orse  tf  rants  than  the  prejudices  of  mankind,  and 
the  servitude  of  liberal  minds  becomes  more  v/eighty 
in  proportion  to  the  publick  igiiorance.  To  form  a  se- 
rious thought  of  pleasing  in  publick  life  is  vain  ;  for  to 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  219 

succeed  m  such  an  endeavour,  we  must  sacrifice  ail 
thought,  give  up  every  real  sentiment  of  the  soul, 
despise  every  thing  which  rational  minds  esteem,  and 
esteem  every  thing  which  a  man  of  understanding  and 
good  sense  despises,  or  else,  by  :>iind]y  dashing  for- 
ward upon  all  occasions,  hazard  content,  tranquility 
and  fortune. 

A  rural  residence,  or  a  tranquil  and  dome  stick  life 
in  town,  will  secin^e  us  from  these  constraints,  and  is 
the  only  means  of  rendering  us  free  and  independent 
of  those  situations  which  are  hostile  to  the  mind,  and 
repugnant  to  good  sense.  But  if  Solitude  ought  to  b^ 
free  from  constraint,  we  must  neither  take  the  habit 
of  monarchism,  nor,  like  the  Doge  of  Venice,  wear 
the  diadem  of  sovereignty.  This  abject  slave  cannot 
visit  a  friend,  nor  receive  a  foreign  ambassador,  with- 
out a  special  permission  from  the  Senate  for  that  pur- 
pose. He  is  indeed  so  wretched,  that  every  one  is 
compelled  to  acknowledge  that  Solitude  and  depeudr 
ence  are  the  highest  pierof-^atives  of  his  crown. 

The  sotil,  when  neither  clogged,  nor  withheld,  nor 
•tormented  by  surrounding  objects,  becomes^  sensible, 
in  Solitude,  of  its  powers,  and  attains  a  clear  and  in- 
timate knowledge  of  its  present  state,  and  of  what  it  is 
able  to  perform.  Liberty  and  leisure,  therefore,  al- 
ways render  a  rational  and  active  mind  indifierent  to 
every  other  kind  of  happiness. 

Solitude  and  the  love  of  liberty  rendered  all  the 
pleasures  of  the  world  odious  to  the  mind  of  Pi> 
TRARCH.  In  his  old  age  he  was  solicited  to  ofHciate 
as  Secretary  to  different  Popes,  at  whatever  salary  he 
thought  proper  to  fix  ;  and  indeed  every  inducement 
that  emolument  could  afford,  was  insidiously  made  use 
of  to  turn  his  views  that  way.  But  Petuarch  repli- 
ed, "  Richcfs  acquired  at  the  expence  of  liberty  are 
'^  the  cause  of  real  misery :  a  yoke  mnde  of  gold  or 
i'\  silver,  is  not  less  oppressive  than   if  made   of  wood 


I 


#t- 


flfi^  TTHE  INylUENCE    OF    SOLITUBE 

*^  or  lead."  He  represented  to  his  patrons  and  friends, 
that  he  could  not  persuade  himself  to  give  up  his  li- 
toerty  and  his  leisure,  because,  in  his  opinion,  the 
>Yorld  afforded  no  wealth  of  equal  value  ;  that  he  could 
jnot  renounce  the  pleasures  of  science  ;  that  he  had 
despised  riches  at  a  time  when  he  was  most  in  need  of 
them,  and  it  would  be  shameful  to  seek  them  now, 
when  it  was  more  easy  for  him  to  do  without  them  ; 
that  he  should  apportion  the  provision  for  his  journey 
according  to  the  distance  he  had  to  travel ;  and  that 
having  almost  reached  the  end  of  his  course,  he  ought 
to  thhik  more  of  his  reception  at  the  inn  than  of  his 
expences  on  the  road. 

A  distaste  of  the  manners  of  a  Court  led  Pe- 
TWARCH  into  Solitude  when  he  was  only  three  and 
twenty  years  of  age,  although  in  his  outward  appear- 
:\nce,  in  his  attention  to  dress,  and  even  in  his  consti- 
tution, he  possessed  every  thins^  that  could  be  expect- 
ed from  a  complete  courtier.  He  was  in  every  res- 
pect formed  to  please  :  the  beauty  of  his  figure  caus- 
jsd  people  to  stop  in  the  street,  and  point  him  out  as 
he  vvalked  aloag.  His  eyes  were  bright,  and  full  of 
fivG  ;  arid  his  lively  countenance  proclaimed  the  viva- 
city of  his  mind.  The  freshest  colour  adorned  his 
cheeks  ;  his  features  were  distinct  and  manly  ;  his 
shape  fine  and  elegant  ;  his  person  tall,  and  his  pre- 
sence noble.  The  genial  climate  of  jivignon  increased 
the  warmth  of  his  constitution.  The  fire  of  youth, 
the  beauty  of  so  many  women  assembled  at  the  Court 
ct  the  Pope  from  every  nation  in  Europe,  and  above 
all  the  dissolute  manners  of  the  Court,  led  him,  very 
early  in  life,  into  connexions  with  women,  A  great 
portion  of  the  day  was  spent  at  his  toilette  in  the  de- 
corations of  dress.  His  habit  was  always  white,  and 
the  least  spot  or  an  improper  fold  gave  his  mind  the 
greatest  uneasiness.  Even  in  the  fashion  of  his  shoes 
he  avoided  every  form  that  appeared  to  him  inelegant  i 


•  N  THE    MIN©    AND    THE    HEART.  221 

they  were  extremely  tight,  and  cramped  his  feet  to 
such  a  diigree,  that  it  would  in  a  short  time  have  been 
Impossible  ibr  him  to  walk,  if  he  had  not  recollected 
that  it  was  much  better  to  shock  the  eyes  of  the  ladies 
than  to  make  himself  a  cripple.  In  walking  through 
the  streets,  he  endeavoured  to  avoid  the  rudeness  of 
the  wind  by  every  possible  means  ;  not  that  he  was 
afraid  of  taking  cokl,  but  because  he  w^as  fearful  that 
the  dress  of  his  hair  might  be  deranged.  A  love, 
iiowever,  much  more  elevated  and  ardent  for  vntue 
aiid  the  belles  lettres^  always  counterbalanced  his  de- 
votion to  the  fair  sex.  In  truth,  to  express  his  passion 
for  the  sex,  he  wrote  all  his  poetry  in  Italian,  and 
only  used  the  learned  languages  upon  serious  and  im- 
port subjects.  But  notwithstanding  the  warmth  of 
<his  constitution,  he  was  always  chaste.  He  held  all 
debauchery  in  the  utmost  detestation  ;  repentance  and 
disgust  immediately  seized  his  mind  upon  the  slight- 
est indulgence  with  the  sex  ;  and  he  often  regretted 
the  sensibility  of  his  feelings  ;  "  I  should  like,"  said 
he,  "  to  have  a  heart  as  hard  as  adamant,  rather  than 
<*  be  so  continually  tormented  by  such  seducing  pas- 
**  sions,"  Among  the  number  of  fine  women,  how- 
ever, who  adorned  the  Court  at  Avignon^  there  were 
some  who  endeavoured  to  captivate  the  heart  of  Pe- 
trarch. Seduced  by  their  charms,  and  drawn  aside 
by  the  facili  with  which  he  obtained  the  happiness 
of  their  company,  he  became  upon  closer  acquain- 
tance obedient  to  all  their  wishes  ;  but  the  inquietudes 
and  torments  of  love  so  much  alarmed  his  mind, 
that  he  endeavoured  to  shun  her  toils.  Before  his 
acquaintance  with  Laura,  he  was  wilder  than  a  stag  ; 
but,  if  tradition  is  to  be  believed,  he  had  not,  at  the 
age  of  thirty-five,  any  occasion  to  reproach  himself 
with  misconduct.  The  fear  of  God,  the  idea  of  death, 
the  love  of  virtue,  the  principles  of  religion,  the  fruits 
of  the  education  he  received  from  his  mother,  pre- 
T    2 


222  THE  INFLUENCE   OF    SOLITUDE 

served  him  from  the  numerous  dangers  by  which  he 
was  surrounded.  The  practice  of  the  Civil  Law  was 
at  this  period  the  only  road  to  eminence  at  the  Court 
of  the  Pope  ;  but  Petrarch  held  the  Law  in  detes- 
tation, and  reprobated  this  venal  trade.  Previous  to 
devoting-  himself  to  the  Church,  he  exercised  for  some 
time  the  profession  of  an  advocate,  and  gained  many- 
causes  ;  but  he  reproached  himself  with  it  afterwards. 
"  In  my  youth,"  says  he,  "  I  devoted  myself  to  the 
**  trade  of  selling  words,  or  rather  of  telling  lies  ;  but 
"  that  which  we  do  against  our  inclinations,  is  seldom 
"  attended  with  success.  My  fondness  was  for  Soli- 
*'  tude,  and  I  therefore  attended  the  practice  of  the 
»'  bar  with  the  greater  detestation."  The  secret  con- 
sciousness which  Petrarch  entertained  of  his  own 
merit,  gave  him,  it  is  true,  all  the  vain  confidence  of 
youth  ;  and  filled  his  mind  with  that  lofty  spirit  which 
begets  the  presumption  of  being  equal  to  every  thing; 
but  his  inveterate  hatred  of  the  manners  of  the  Court 
impeded  his  exertions.  "  I  have  no  hope,"  said  he, 
in  the  thirt} -fifth  year  of  his  age,  "  of  making,  my 
"  fortune  in  the  Court  of  the  Vicar  of  Jesus  Christ: 
"  to  accomplish  that,  I  must  assiduously  visit  the  pa- 
''  laces  of  the  great ;  I  must  flatter,  lie,  and  deceive." 
Petrarch  was  not  capable  of  doing  this.  He  nei- 
ther hated  men  nor  disliked  advancement,  but  he 
detested  the  means  that  he  must  necessarily  use  to  at- 
tain it.  He  loved  glory,  and  ardently  sought  it, 
iliough  not  by  the  ways  in  which  it  is  generally  ob- 
tained. He  delighted  to  walk  in  the  most  unfrecjuent- 
©tl  paths,  and,  in  consequence,  he  renounced  the 
world. 

The  aversion  which  Petrarch  felt  from  the  man- 
ners which  are  peculiar  to  Courts  was  the  particular 
occasion  of  his  Essay  upon  Solitude.  In  tlie  year 
1346  he  was,  as  usual,  during  Le?ii  at  Vaucluse^ 
The  Bishop  or  Cayijllok;  ^^^ixigus  to  enter  into  con- 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAKT.  223^ 

versation  with  him,  and  to  taste  tli€  fruits  of  Solitude,, 
fixed  his  residence  at  his  castle,  which  is  situated  up- 
on the  summit  of  a  high  rock,  and  appears  to  be  con- 
structed more  for  the  habitation  of  birds  than  men  ;  at 
present  the  ruins  of  it  only  remain  to  be  seen.  All 
thiit  the  Bishop  and  Petrarch  had  seen  at  Avignon 
arid  Naples  had  inspired  them  with  disgust  of  residence 
in  cities,  and  the  highest  contempt  for  the  manners  of 
a  court.  They  weighed  all  the  unpleasant  circum- 
stances they  had  before  experienced,  and  opposed  the 
situations  which  produced  them  to  the  advantages  of 
Solitude.  This  was  the  usual  subject  of  their  con- 
versation at  the  castle,  and  that  which  gave  birth,  in 
the  raind  of  FEfRAiicH^  to  the  resolution  of  exploring, 
and  uniting,  into  one  work,  all  his  own  ideas,  and  those 
of  others,  upon  this  delightful  subject.  This  work 
was  begun  in  Lent  and  finished  at  Easter  ;  but  he  re- 
vised and  corrected  it  aflerwards,  making  many  altera- 
tions, and  adding  every  thing  which  occurred  to  his 
mind  previous  to  the  publication.  It  was  not  till  the 
year  1366,  twenty  years  afterwards,  that  he  sent  it  to. 
the  Bishop  OF  Cavillon^   to  whom  it  was  dedicated. 

If  all  that  I  have  said  of  Petrarch  in  the  course 
of  this  work,  were  to  be  collected  into  one  point  of 
view,  it  would  be  seen  v/hat  very  important  sacrifices 
he  made  to  Solitude.  But  his  mind  and  his  heart  were, 
framed  to  enjoy  the  advantages  it  affords  with  a  degree 
of  delight  superior  to  that  in  which  any  other  person 
could  have  enjoyed  them,  and  all  this  happiness  he 
obtained  from  this  disgust  to  a  court,  and  from  his 
love  of  liberty, 

Tlie  love  of  liberty  was  also  the  cause  of  Rous- 
seau's feeling  so  violent  a  disgust  for  Society,  and  in 
Solitude  became  the  source  of  all  his  pleasures.  His 
Letters  toM.  de  Malherbe  are  as  remarkable  for 
the  information  they  afford  of  the  true  j?;enuis  of  the 
writer,  as  are  his  Concessions  j  which  have  not  been. 


■ 


224  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

better  understood  than  his  character.  He  writes  in 
one  of  them,  "  I  mistook  for  a  great  length  of  time 
<<  the  cause  of  that  invincible  disgust  which  I  have  al- 
"  ways  felt  in  the  commerce  of  the  world,  I  attribut- 
"  ed  it  to  the  mortification  of  not  possessing  that  quick 
"  and  ready  talent  necessary  to  discover  in  conversa- 
*<  tion  the  little  knowledge  which  I  possessed  ;  and 
*'  this  beat  back  an  idea  that  I  did  not  occupy  that  sta- 
''  tion  in  the  opinion  of  mankind  which  I  conceived  I 
"  merited.  But  after  having  scribbled  a  great  quan- 
«  tity  of  paper,  I  was  perfectly  convinced,  that  even 
«  in  saying  ridiculous  things  I  was  in  no  danger  of 
«  being  taken  for  a  fool.  When  I  perceived  myself 
"  sought  after  by  all  the  world,  and  honoured  with 
"  much  more  consideration  than  even  my  own  ridicu- 
"  lous  vanity  would  have  ventured  to  expect  ;  and 
*^  that,  notwithstanding  this,  I  felt  the  same  disgust 
<i  rather  augmented  than  diminished  ;  I  concluded  that 
^^  it  must  arise  from  some  other  cause,  and  that  these 
«  were  not  the  kind  of  enjoyments  for  which  I  must 
'^  look.  What  then,  in  fact,  is  the  cause  of  it  ?  It  is 
<«  no  other  than  that  invincible  spirit  of  liberty  which^- 
<'-  nothing  can  overcome,  and  in  comparison  with^ 
^'  w^hich  honour,  fortune  and  even  fame  itself,  are  to^ 
"  me  nothing.  It  is  certani,  that  this  spirit  of  liber- 
«  ty  is  less  engendered  by  pride  than  by  indolence  ; 
«  but  this  indolence  is  incredible;  it  is  alarmed  at' 
"  every  thing  ;  it  renders  the  most  trifling  duties  of 
*'  civil  life  insupportable  :  to  be  obliged  to  speak  a 
«  word,  to  write  a  letter,  or  to  pay  a  visit,  are  to  me, 
"  from  the  moment  the  obligation  arises,  the  severest 
<^  punishments.  This  is  the  reason,  why,  although 
<«  the  ordinary  commerce  of  men  is  odious  to  me,  the 
"  pleasures  of  private  friendship  are  so  dear  to  my 
«  heart ;  for  in  the  indulgence  of  private  friendships 
"  there  are  no  duties  to  perform,  we  have  only  to  fol- 
«  low  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  and  all  is  done.     This 


ON  TiiE    MINB    AND    THE    HEART.  225 

^^  is  the  reason  also  why  I  have  so  much  dreaded  to 
"  accept  of  favours  ;  for  every  act  of  kindness  de- 
^'  mands  an  acknowledgenient  ;  and  I  feel  that  my 
"  heart  is  ungrateful,  only  because  gratitude  becomes 
*^  a  duty.  The  kind  of  happiness,  m  short,  which 
"  pleases  me  best,  does  not  consist  so  much  in  doing 
"  what  I  wish,  as  in  avoiding  that  which  is  repugnant 
^^  to  my  inclination.  Active  life  affords  no  temptati- 
*'  ons  to  me  ;  I  would  a  hundred  times  rather  do 
"  nothing  at  alh  than  that  which  I  disHke  ;  and  I  have 
"  frequently  thought,  that  I  should  not  have  lived 
<'  very  unhappily  even  in  the  Bastile,  provided  I 
"  was  free  from  every  other  constraint  than  that  of 
*^  merely  residing  within  its  walls." 

The  advantap:es  of  a  tranquil  leisure  were  never  felt 
with  higher  delight  than  by  Rousseau  ;  these  enjoy- 
ments, however,  are  equally  within  the  reach  of  every 
individual.  «'  When  my  torments,"  says  this  amia- 
ble philosopher,  "  oblifj^e  me  to  count  the  long  and 
"  sorrowful  progress  of  the  night,  and  the  violence  of 
"  my  fever  prevents  me  from  enjoying  one  moment's 
'''  sleep,  I  frequently  forget  my  present  condition  in 
"  reflecting  on  the  various  events  of  my  life,  and  re- 
"  collection,  repentance,  regret  and  pity,  divide  those 
*^  attentions  in  which  I  bury,  for  a  few  moments,  all 
"  my  sufferings.  What  situations  do  you  conceive, 
,<'  Sir,  I  most  frequently  and  most  cheerfully  recall  to 
!"  my  mind  in  these  meditations  ?  Not  the  pleasures 
"  of  my  youth  ;  they  were  too  few,  too  much  blend- 
^'  ed  v/ith  bitterness,  and  are  now  too  distant  from  my 
I*'  thoughts  ;  but  the  pleasures  of  my  retirement,  my 
i"  solitary  walks,  the  transient  though  delicious  days 
"  which  I  have  passed  entirely  with  myself,  with  my 
j"  good  old  housekeeper,  my  faithful  well-beloved  dog, 
1"  my  old  cat,  the  birds  of  the  fields,  and  the  beasts  of 
^'  the  |prests,  surrounded  by  all  the  charms  of  nature, 
^'  and  filled  witlx  tl\eir  divine  and  incomprehensible 


996  THt  INFLUENCE    or  SOLITUDB 

*<  Author.  Repairing  before  it  was  light  to  my  gar- 
"  den,  to  see  and  contemplate  the  rising  sun,  when  I 
"  discovered  the  symptoms  of  a  fine  day,  my  first 
*'  prayer  was,  that  neither  messai^es  nor  visitors  might 
"  arrive  to  disturb  the  charm.  After  having  devoted 
'*  the  mornmg  to  various  cares,  which  as  I  could  put 
"  them  off  till  another  time  I  always  attended  to  with 
"  pleasure,  I  hastened  to  my  dinner  that  I  might 
"  avoid  unpleasant  visitors,  and  thereby  procure  a 
"  longer  afternoon.  Before  one  o'clock,  even  in  the 
<^  hottest  days  of  summer,  while  the  sun  shone  its 
^  meridian  splendour,  I  walked  forth  with  my  faith- 
"  ful  Achates,  burring  along,  learful  lest  someone 
**  might  seize  hold  of  me  before  I  Was  secure  in  my 
"  escape  ;  but  when  I  had  once  turned  a  certain  corn- 
"  er,  and  felt  myself  free  from  danger,  with  what 
<^  palpitation  of  heart,  with  what  lively  joy  I  drev/  my 
*'  breath,  and  exclaimed,  JVow  I  am  mas ier  of  my  time 
^^  for  the  remainder  of  the  day  I  I  then  v/alked  with 
"  tranquil  steps  in  search  of  some  wild  sequestered 
"  spot  in  the  forest,  some  desart  place,  where  no  ob^ 
*'  ject,  touched  by  the  hands  of  men,  announced  ser- 
"  vitude  and  domination  ;  some  asylum,  into  which  I 
^'  might  fancy  that  I  alone  had  first  entered,  and  where 
"  no  impertinent  intruder  might  interpose  between 
"  nature  and  myself." 

Who  would  not  willingly  renounce  the  dissipations 
of  the  world  for  these  calm  enjoyments  of  the  heart  ! 
the  splendid  slavery  of  society  for  this  inestimable  lil> 
erty  !  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  mankind,  in  gene- 
ral, are  not  in  a  situation  so  favourable  to  selfrenjoy- 
iTi,ent ;  only  let  them  try,  however,  the  pure  pleasures 
of  the  country,  and  they  will  find  that  one  day  of  lib- 
erty, one  hour  of  quiet,  will  effectually  cure  them  of 
their  anxiety  for  feasts,  shows,  finery,  and  all  tlie  noi- 
sy rendezvous  of  fashion  and  folly.  ** 

Pope  Clkxe^^t  the  six^th  offered  to  P£i4wViicHj 


i 


ox  THE    MIND    ANO    THE    HEART.  S27 

beside  the  office  of  Apostolick  Secretary,  -many  consi- 
derable bisbopricks.  Petrarch  constantly  rtfuscd 
them.  "  You  will  not  accept  of  any  thing  that  I  of- 
*'  for  to  you  1*'  said  the  Holy  Father  :  "  Ask  of  me 
*'  what  you  please.''  Two  months  afterwards  Pe- 
trarch wrote  to  one  of  iiis  friends,  "  Every  degree 
«  of  elevation  creates  new  suspicions  in  my  mind,  be- 
*<  cause  I  perceive  the  misfortunes  that  attend  it, 
''  Would  they  but  grant  me  that  hai)py  mediocrity  so 
"  preferable  to  gold,  and  which  they  have  promised 
'f'  me,  I  should  accept  the  gift  with  gratitude  and  cor-p 
"  diality  ;  but  if  they  only  intend  to  invest  me  vmh 
"  some  important  employment,  I  shall  refuse  it.  I 
'^  will  shake  oif  the  yoke  ;  for  I  had  much  rather  live 
"  poor  than  become  a  slave." 

'  An  Englishman  somewhere  asks,  "  Why  are  the 
«  inhabitants  of  the  rich  plains  of  Lombardy,  where 
"  nature  pours  her  gifts  in  such  profusion,  less  opu- 
'<  lent  than  those  of  the  mountains  of  Swisserland  ? 
^  Because  freedom,  whose  influence  is  more  benign 
*'  than  sunshine  and  zephyrs,  who  covers  the  rugged 
<'  rock  with  soil,  drains  the  sickly  swamp,  and  clothes 
«  the  brown  heath  in  verdure  ;  who  dresses  the  la« 
^  bourer's  face  with  smiles,  and  makes  him  behold 
"  his  increasing  family  with  delight  and  exultation  ; 
**  freedom  has  abandoned  the  fertile  fields  of  Lombar- 
**  dy,  and  dwells  among  the  mountains  of  Swisserr 
^  land." 

This  is  the  warm  enthusiasm  of  poetry  ;  but  it  is 
iliterally  true  at  Uri,  Schwitz,  Un-cdvald,  Zug,  Glaris. 
and  Appenzel.  For  he  who  has  more  than  his  w^ants 
require,  is  rich  ;  and  whoever  is  enabled  to  think, 
to  speak,  and  to  employ  himself  as  his  inclination 
may  direct,  is  tree. 

Competency  and  liberty,  therefore,  are  the  true 
sweeteners  of  hfe.  That  state  of  mind,  so  rarely  pos« 
«^#sed,    in  which  w^e  can   sincerely   say,    "  /  /i&ve 


S2S  THE  INFLUENCJi    OF    SOLITUBB 

enough^''  is  the  highest  attainment  of  philosophy. 
Happiness  consists  not  in  having  too  much,  but  suf- 
ficient. Kings  and  princes  are  unhappy,  because  they 
always  desire  more  than  they  possess,  and  are  contin- 
ually stimulated  to  accomplish  more  than  it  is  within 
their  power  to  attain.  The  greatest  and  the  best  of 
kings  are  therefore  not  to  blame,  if  they  sometimes 
say,  '^  My  son^  I  am  deaf  to-day  07i  my  left  <?ar/' 

Men  are,  ordinarily,  inclined  to  appear  much  hap- 
pier than,  in  fact,  they  are  ;  and  they  consider  every 
thing  which  detracts  from  this  appearance  as  a  real 
misfortune.  But  if  you  are  happy,  by  any  sneans 
whatsoever,  conduct  yourself  so  that  nobody  shall 
know  it,  except  your  most  intimate  friends.  Conceal 
all  the  feehngs  you  possess,  hide  all  the  felicity  you 
enjoy — for  crvvy  is  ever  watchiul  to  find  its  way  into 
the  bosom  of  tranquility,  and  will  soon  destroy  its  se- 
renity. 

He  who  only  wants  little  has  always  enough.  "  I 
"  am  contented,"  says  Pe'Trarch^  in  a  letter  to  his 
friends,  the  Cardinals  Talletrand  and  Bologna^ 
"  I  desire  nothing  more.  I  have  placed  limits  to  my 
^^  desires.  I  enjoy  every  thing  that  is  necessary  to 
"  life,  CinciNNAfus^CuRius^  Fabricius^  ReguluSj 
<'  after  having  conquered  nations  and  led  kings  in  tri- 
^'  umph,  were  not  so  rich  as  I  am.  But  I  should  al- 
^'  ways  be  poor  if  I  were  to  open  a  door  to  my  pas- 
<'  sions.  Luxury,  ambition,  avarice,  know  no  bounds 
«  — and  desire  is  9  fathomless  abyss.  I  have  deaths 
«  to  coyer  me  ;  victuals  to  support  me  ;  horses  to 
<jf  carry  me  ;  lands  to  lie  down  or  walk  upon  while  I 
^'  live,  and  to  receive  my  remains  when  dead.  What 
"  more  was  any  Roman  emperour  possessed  of  ?  My 
««  body  is  healthy  ;  and  the  flesh,  subdued  by  labour, 
<f  is  less  rebellious  against  the  spirit.  I  have  books  of 
"  every  kind,  which  to  me  are  an  inestimable  treas^ 
f«  ure  }  they  fill  my  soul  with  a  voluptuous  delight, 


®N  THE    MIND    AND    THE   HEART.  2,29 

♦<  "which  is  never  tinctured  with  remorse.  I  have  friends 
<<  v^^honi  I  consider  more  precious  than  any  thing 
i<  I  possess  ;  provided  their  counsels  do  not  tend  to 
i'  deprive  me  of  my  hberty.  I  know  of  no  other  ene- 
<'  mies  than  those  \vhich  envy  has  raised  against  me. 
*^  I  despise  them,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart ;  and 
<'  perhaps  it  w^ould  be  unhappy  for  me  were  they  not 
^'  my  enemies.  I  still  reckon  among  my  riches,  the 
<'  love  and  kindness  of  all  the  good  men  who  are  upoi% 
<'  earth,  even  those  whom  I  have  never  seen,  and  per- 
<^  haps  never  shall  see.'* 

From  this  passage  Ave  may  discover  that  envy  fol- 
lowed Petrarch  into  the  retreats  of  Sohtude.  He 
frequently  complains  of  it ;  but  in  this  letter  he  treats 
it  with  propriety.  He  despises  his  envious  enemies, 
and  would  be  sorry  if  he  were  without  them. 

Solitude  discovers  to  mankind  their  real  want^.-— . 
Where  great  simplicity  of  manners  prevails,  men  al- 
ways possess  suilicieilt  for  the  enjoyment  of  life.  If  I 
neither  see  nor  know  the  things  which  you  have  or  de- 
sire to  possess,  I  cannot  entertain  even  an  idea  of  any 
good  which  they  can  possibly  produce.  An  old  coun- 
try curate,  residing  upon  a  lofty  mountain,  near  the 
lake  of  Thun,  in  the  canton  of  Berne,  was  one  day  pre- 
sented with  a  moor-cock.  The  good  man  was  igno- 
rant of  the  rarity  he  had  received,  and  consulted  with 
his  cook  what  he  should  do  with  it.  The  pastor  and 
the  cook  agreed  to  bury  it  in  the  ground.  Alas  !  were 
we  all  as  ignorant  of  moor-cocks^  we  should  all  be  as 
happy  as  the  curate  of  the  mountain  near  the  lake  of 
Thun. 

He  w^ho  places  limits  to  his  real  wants  is  more 
wise,  more  rich,  and  more  contented  than  us  all.—- 
The  system  upon  which  he  acts  partakes  of  the  no- 
ble simplicity  of  his  mind.  He  finds  felicity  in  the 
i^ost  obscure  life,  in  situations  at  the  greatest  distance 
from  the  world.      Truth  and  simplicity  are   the  onlv 

u 


230  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDU 

objects  of  his  affection  :  he  follows  that  }>hiIesoph5r 
^vhich  requires  but  little,  has  few  wants,  and  seeks  his 
highest  happiness  in  a  contented  mind. 

Pope,  v/iien  only  twelve  years  ot  age,  wrote  an  af- 
f.:cting  and  agTeei.ble  little  Gde  upon  tiie  subject  of 
Solitude,  which  comprehends  the  very  essence  of  tli 
philosophy. 

ODE  ON  SOLITUDE. 

Ila/ifiij  the  ?nan  whose  wifih  and  care-^ 

A  few  paternal  acres  bounds 
Ccnt€7i£  to  breathe  his  native  air^ 

In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  ivzthmilk^  whose  fields  with  breads 

Whose  fiocks  supply  him  with  attire^ 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade^ 
In  winter^  fire. 

Blest ^  who  can  unconcernedly  find ^ 

Hours^  days^  and  years  slide  srft  away^ 
In  health  of  body ^  fieace  ofmind.^ 

Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night  ;  study  and.  ease, 
Together  7nix^d  ;  sweet  recreation  I 
And  innocence^  which  most  does  please . 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live  unseen^  unknown^ 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die, 
Steal ff^om  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  wht  re  I  lie. 

To  those  who  love  a  calm  and  tranquil  life,  the 
scenes  of  sensuality  become  more  simple,  peaceful, 
and  less  alarming  ;  to  the  worldly-minded,  this  field 


ON    THE    MiXD    AND    THE  HEART.  231 

is'full  of  barren  dreary  places  ;  of  noise  and  tuniult  ; 
Vineyards  and  banquetting  houses,  wanton  dancings 
aiid  infirmaries  ;  tombs  upon  wliicli  the  roses  fade, 
and  dark  shades  in  which  lovers  meet.  But  to  the 
mind  of  him  who  shuns  such  brutal  joys,  such  gross 
vokiptuousness,  the  pleasures  of  sense  are  of  a  more 
elevated  kind  ;  as  soft  as  they  are  sublinje  ;  as  inno- 
cent as  they  are  pure  ;  and  as  permanent  as  they  are 
tranquil. 

The  disgust  which  i1ows  from  opulence  disappears 
in  the  simplicity  of  rural  life.  The  bosom  learns  to 
enjoy  sensations  very  different  from  those  it  experi- 
enced in  this  world.  The  sentiments  of  the  mind  are 
rendered  more  free  ;  the  feelings  of  the  heart  more 
pure  ;  neither  overpowered  by  profusion,  nor  blunted 
by  satiety. 

Petrarch  one  day  inviting  his  friend,  the  Cardinal 
Colon N A,  to  visit  his  retirement  at  Vaucluse,  wrote 
to  him,  "  If  you  prefer  the  tranquility  of  the  country 
"  to  the  tumults  of  the  town,  come  here,  and  enjoy 
*«  yourself  :  do  not  be  alarmed  at  the  simplicity  ef  my 
"  table,  or  the  hardness  of  my  beds.  Kings  them- 
"  selves  are  sometimes  disgusted  witli  luxury,  and 
"  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  a  more  frugal  repast.  They 
"  are  pleased  by  the  change  of  scene  ;  and  occasional 
"interruption  does  not  render  their  plt^asures  less 
^*  lively.  But  if  you  wish  only  to  enjoy  your  accus- 
'«  tomed  luxury,  what  is  to  prevent  your  bringini;;' 
"  with  you  the  most  exquisite  viands,  the  wuies  of 
^^  Vesuvius,  dishes  of  silver,  and  every  thing  that  can 
"  delight  the  senses  !  Leave  the  rest  to  me.  1  pro- 
"  mise  to  provide  you  with  a  bed  of  the  finest  turf,  a 
«  cooling  sliade,  a  concert  of  nightingales,  figs,  rai- 
"  sins,  water  drawn  from  the  freshest  springs,  and,  in 
"  short,  every  tiling  that  the  hand  of  nature  presentiSfe 
''  to  true  pleasure. 

Who  would  not,  alas  1    willingly    renounce  these 


^.3^  -gCHE  INf  LUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

things  which  only  produce  disquietude  in  the  mind, 
for  those  which  render  it  contented  ?  The  art  of  occa* 
sionally  divertin.^  the  imagination,  i;aste,  and  passions, 
affords  new  and  unknown  enjoyments  to  the  mind, 
sind  confers  pleasure  without  pain,  and  hixury  without 
repentance.  The  senses,  deadened  by  satiety,  revive 
to  new  enjoyments.  The  lively  twitter  of  the  groves, 
and  the  murmur  of  the  brooks,  yield  a  more  delicious 
pleasure  to  the  ear,  than  the  musick  of  theopera,  or 
the  compositions  of  the  ablest  masters.  The  eye  re- 
poses more  agreeably  on  the  concave  firmament,  on 
an  expanse  of  waters,  on  mountains  covered  with 
rocks,  than  it  does  at  balls,  assemblies,  and  /letzf 
ooufiers.  The  mind  enjoys,  in  Solitude,  objects  which 
were  before  insupportable  4  and,  reclining  on  the  bo- 
som of  simplicity,  easily  renounces  every  vain  delight. 
Petrarch  wrote  from  Vaucluse  to  one  of  his  friends, 
^^  I  have  made  v/ar  against  my  corporeal  powers,  for 
^'  I  find  they  are  my  enemies.  My  eyes,  which  have 
^^  occasioned  me  to  commit  so  many  follies,  are  now 
'*  confined  to  the  view  of  a  single  woman,  old,  black, 
*'  and  sun-burnt.  If  Helen  and  Lucretia  had  pos- 
*^  sessed  such  a  flice,  TiiOY  would  never  have  been 
^'  reduced  to  a$hes,  nor  Tarquin  driven  from  the 
"  empire  of  the  v/orld.  But,  to  compensate  these  de- 
'•  fects,  she  is  faithful,  submissive,  and  industrious. 
^'  She  passes  whole  days  in  the  fields  ;  and  her  shriv- 
<*  elled  skin  defies  the  burning  sun,  even  in  the  hottest 
'^  dQf.^-days.  My  wardrobe  still  contains  fine  clothes, 
''  but  I  never  wear  them  ;  and  you  would  take  me  for 
<'  a  common  labourer,  or  a  simple  shepherd  ;  I  who 
^'  was  formerly  so  anxious  about  my  dress.  But  the 
^'  reasons  whicli  then  prevailed  no  longer  exist  ;  the 
^'  fetters  by  which  I  was  enslaved  are  broken  ;  the 
^'  eyes  which  T  was  anxious  to  ])lcase  are  shut  ;  and 
"  if  they  were  still  open,  they  would  not,  perhaps,  now, 
'^  be  able  to  maintain  the  same  empire  over  my  heart. 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  233 

Solltiule,  by  stripping  worldly  objects  of  that  false 
splendour  with  which  the  imagination  arrays  them, 
destroys  the  vain  ambition  of  the  mind.  Accustomed 
to  rural  pleasure,  and  indifferent  to  every  other,  a  wise 
man  no  longer  feels  power  and  dignities  worthy  of  his 
desu^es.  A  Roman  was  overwhelmed  with  tears  by 
being  obliged  to  accept  the  Consulship,  because  it 
Would,  for  one  year,  deprive  him  of  the  pleasure  of 
cultivating  his  fields.  Cincinnatus,  v/ho  was  called 
from  the  plough  to  the  command  of  the  urmy  of  the 
empire,  defeated  the  enemy,  possessed  himself  of  the 
f>rovinccs,  made  his  triumphal  entry  into  Rome,  and, 
at  the  exphation  of  sixteen  days,  returned  to  his 
plough. 

To  be  the  inmate  of  an  humble  cottage,  or  the  own- 
el'  of  a  spacious  mansion,  to  have  every  thing  sump- 
tuously provided,  or  to  be  o])liged  to  earn  the  means 
of  subsistence,  are  not  held  in  equal  estimation  by 
mankind.  But  le]t  the  man  who  has  experienced  both 
the  one  and  the  other  of  these  situations,  be  asked, 
under  whicli  of  them  he  has  passed  the  most  contented 
life  ?  Who  cannot  recount  the  greater  number  of  cares 
and  inquietudes  which  are  felt  in  the  palace  than  under 
the  roof  of  the  simple  cottager  ?  who  can  deny  that, 
in  the  former,  discontent  poisons  every  enjoyment, 
and  makes  ease  and  superfluity  a  disguised  misery* 
The  Princes  of  Germany  cannot  digest  all  the  poison 
which  their  cooks  prepare,  so  well  as  a  peasant  upon 
the  heaths  of  Limbourg  digests  his  buckwheat  pie  ; 
and  those  who  may  differ  from  me  in  this  opinion,  will 
be  forced  to  acknowledge,  that  there  is  great  truth  in 
the  reply  which  a  pretty  French  country  girl  made  to 
a  young  and  amiable  nobleman,  who  sohcited  her  to 
abandon  her  solitary,  rural  situation,  and  retire  with 
him  to  Paris,  "  Ah  1  Mcm^rlenrle  Marquis,  the  farther 
"  we  remove  fioni  ourselves,  the  greater  is  our  dis- 
"  tance  from  happiness." 

U  2 


234  THE  INFLUENCE    QF    SOLITUDE 

A  single  passion,  which  we  are  neither  inclined  nor 
able  to  satisfy,  frequently  embitters  our  lives.  There 
are  moments  in  which  the  mind  is  discontented  with 
itself,  tired  of  its  existence,  disgusted  with  every- 
thing, incapable  of  relishing  either  Solitude  or  dissi- 
paition,  lost  to  all  repose,  and  alienated  from  every 
pleasure.  Time,  under  such  a  situation,  although 
unei'nployed,  appears  horribly  tedious  ;  arim^ene- 
trable  chaos  of  sentiments  and  ideas  pre^^llIs  ;  the 
present  affords  no  enjoyment  ;  and  we  wait  with  im- 
patience for  the  future.  The  mind,  in  truth,  wants  the 
true  salt  of  life,  and  without  tliat,  existence  is  insipid. 

But  where  is  this  precious  salt  to  be  found  ?  Is  it  in 
the  passion  of  love  ?  Love,  without  doubt,  frequently 
preserves  life,  and  sometimes  gives  it  new  vigour  and 
animation  ;  but  a  pas^iion  which  undermines  and  con- 
sumes us,  can  neither  afford  permanency  nor  tran- 
quility. The  love  capable  of  raising  itself  to  the 
strength  and  power  of  being  permanent,  must  descend 
into  a  sincere  friendship,  or  it  will  destroy  itself  or  its 
object,  by  adding  fuel  to  a  subtile  flame,  which  will 
reduce  the  lover  and  beloved  to  a  heap  of  cinders. 
Tlie  suit  of  life,  therefore,  must  be  extracted  from  a 
passion,  which  does  not  require  the  aid  of  another  to 
support  it  ;  which  is  capable  of  feeding  itself;  which 
acquires  new  force  the  longer  it  continues  ;  and  which, 
free  and  independent,  raises  the  soul  superiour  to  every 
thing  that  surrounds  it. 

Solitude  and  limited  desires  afford  a  true  happiness 
to  the  statesman  who  is  cashiered  from  his  office,  or 
exiled  from  the  state.  Every  great  minister  does  not, 
indeed,  retire  from  his  employments,  like  JVeckaRj 
through  the  portals  of  everlasting  fame.  But  every- 
one, without  distinction,  ought  to  raise  their  grateful 
hands  to  Heaven,  on  finding  themselves  suddenly  con- 
veyed from  the  troubled  ocean  of  publick  life  to  the 
calm"  repose  of  their  native  fields,  to  the  pastoral  care- 


©N  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  235 

of  their  flocks  and  herds,  under  the  shade  of  those  trees 
which  their  ancestors  planted.  In  France,  however,  if 
the  minister  incurs  the  displeasure  of  his  sovereign, 
he  is  ordered  to  retire — that  is,  to  retire  to  the  estate 
which  he  has  embellished  and  made  a  most  agreeable 
retreat.  But,  alas  1  this  delightful  retreat  is  to  him  a 
place  of  exile ;  the  situation  becomes  intolerable  ;  he 
no  longer  tastes  its  beauties  with  pleasure — .and  sleep 
files  from  his  eyes,  since  he  is  no  longer  his  own  mas- 
ter. The  liesure  he  possesses  renders  him  an  impa- 
tient hypochondriac,  whose  mind  turns  with  aversion 
from  every  object,  and  whose  ill-humour  tinctures  ev- 
ery thing  he  sees.  The  disgrace  of  a  minister,  in 
France,  is  frequently  fatal  to  his  political  existence.*—. 
But  this  is  not  the  case  in  England  ;  there  they  felici- 
tate the  minister  on  his  retirement,  as  a  man  just  re- 
covered from  a  dangerous  distemper.  He  still  main- 
tains many  more  and  better  friends  than  he  before  pos- 
sessed— for  these  are  attached  to  him  by  sincere  es- 
teem, while  the  former  were  attached  to  him  only  by 
their  interests.  May  the  great  Governoiu*  of  the  Uni- 
verse recompense  Britons  for  the  examples  which 
they  have  given  to  us  of  men  sufficiently  bold  and  in- 
dependent to  weigh  every  transaction  in  the  scales  of 
I  reason,  and  to  guide  themselves  by  the  intrinsick  and 
,  real  merit  of  each  cause  !  For,  notwithstanding  the 
i  rashness  with  which  many  Englishmen  have  revolted 
I  against  the  Supreme  Being  ;  notwithstanding  the 
laugh  and  mockery  with  v/hich  they  have  so  frequent- 
ly insulted  virtue,  good  manners  and  decorum,  there 

*  "  It  is  to  this  endy'*  says  one  of  our  writers^  "  that 

'  disgraces^  of  ahriost  every  kind,,  conduct  men.     The  cre^. 

dity  authority  and  considcradon  which  they  before  enjoy^ 

ed^  are  like  those  transient  fires ^  which  shine  during  the 

nighty  andy  being  suddenly  extinguished^  only  re?ider  the 

!  darkness  and  Solitude  in  which  the  traveller  is  involved^ 

\  more  visible.'^ 


2j6  the  influence  of  solitude 

* 

are  many  more  amoni^  them  who,  especially  at  an  ad- 
vanced period  of  their  lives,  perfectly  understand  the 
art  of  living  by  themselves  ;  who,  in  their  tranquil  and 
delightful  villas,  think  much  more  nobly,  and  live  with 
more  freedom  and  dignity,  than  any  ignorant  or  pre- 
sumptuous peer  of  nari!am':;nt. 

It  is  said,  that  of  twenty  ministers  who  receive  the 
publick  thanks,  or  are  forced  by  age  to  resign  them- 
selves to  retirenient,  there  are  always  twelve  or  fifteen 
wlio  finish  their  career  by  becoming  gardeners  and 
country  gentlemen.  So  much  the  better  for  these 
ex-ministers  ;  for  they,  like  the  excellent  Chancellor 
De  la  Rociie^  at  Spires,  certainly  possess  much  more 
content,  with  the  shovel  and  the  rake^  than  they  enjoy- 
ed in  the  most  prosperous  hours  of  their  administra- 
tion. 

Sentiments  like  these  furnish,  it  is  said,  an  excellent 
theme  to  those  who,  ignorant  of  the  nianners  of  the 
world  and  unacquainted  with  men,  ai^e,  fond  of  morali- 
zmg  and  of  extolling  a  contempt  of  human  greatness. 
Rural  innocence  and  amusement,  the  pure  and  simple 
pleasures  of  nature,  and  the  enjoyment  of  a  calm  con- 
tent, so  arduously  acquired,  very  seldom  form,  it  is 
contended,  any  portion  of  those  boasted  advantages 
which  this  Solitude  is  said  to  possess.  It  is  added,  al- 
so, that  a  minister  in  office,  though  surrounded  by 
endless  difficulties,  suiiject  to  incessant  torment,  oblig- 
ed to  rack  his  brains  and  to  employ  every  art  and  curi- 
ning  to  attain  his  ends — ^l^egins,  by  his  success,  to  feel 
that  he  has  attained  what,  until  this  period,  he  had  ne- 
ver possessed,  the  character  of  ?napter  and  sovereign  ; 
that  he  is  then  enabled  to  create  ai\d  to  destroy,  to  plant 
and  to  root  up^  to  make  alterations  v/hen  and  where  he 
pleases — that  he  may  pull  down  a  vineyard  and  erect 
an  English  grove  on  its  scite — make  hills  where  hills 
were  never  seen  before — -level  eminences  with  the 
ground — compel  the  streams  to  flow  as  his  inclination 


ON  THS    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  2'27 

shall  direct— force  woods  and  shrubberies  to  grow 
where  he  pleases — graft  or  lop,  as  it  shall  strike  his 
idea — open  views  and  shut  out  bound^u^ies — construct 
ruins  where  ruins  never  happened — erect  temples,  of 
which  he,  alone,  is  the  high  priest — and  build  hermit- 
ages, where  he  may  seclude  himself  at  pleasure  :— . 
That  all  this  is  not  a  reward  for  the  restraints  he  for- 
merly experienced,  but  a  natural  inclination — Since  he 
may  now  give  orders  without  being  himself  obliged  to 
obey  ;  for  a  minister  must  be,  from  the  habits  of  his 
life,  fond  of  command  and  sovereignty,  to  the  end  of 
his  days— whether  he  continues  at  the  head  of  an  ex- 
tensive empire,  or  directs  the  management  of  a  poul- 
try-yard. 

To  maintain  that  it  is  necessary  to  renounce  the  nat- 
ural passions  of  the  human  mind,  in  order  to  enjoy  th& 
advantages  of  Solitude,  would,  without  doubt,  not  only 
be  moralizing  very  awkwardly,  but  discover  a  great  ig- 
norance of  the  world  and  of  the  nature  of  man.  That 
which  is  planted  in  the  breast  of  man  must  there  re- 
main. If>  therefore,  a  minister  be  not  satiated  with 
the  exercise  of  power  and  authority  ;  if,  in  his  retire- 
ment, he  still  retain  the  weakness  to  wish  for  com- 
mand—'let  him  require  obedience  from  his  chickens 
whenever  he  pleases,  provided  such  a  gratification  is 
essential  to  his  happiness,  and  tends  to  suppress  the 
desire  of  again  exposing  himself  to  those  tempests  and 
shipwrecks  which  he  can  only  avoid  in  the  safe  har- 
bour of  rural  life*.  An  Ex-Minister  must  sooner 
or  later  learn  to  despise   the  appearances  of  human 

*  "  Marshal  de  Boufflers  has  retired  to  cultivate 
"  his  yields^''  said  Madame  Maintenon  :  "  /  ain  of 
*'  ofiinion  that  this  QiYici^^ at vs  would  not  be  sorry  to 
"  be  fetched  from  his  filoiv*  At  his  departure  he  charge 
*'  ed  us  all  to  thing  of  him^  if  any  think  was  wanted 
''  during  his  absense^  which  may  fterhaps  continue  ff 
*'  tem  days,*' 


233'  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

nature  grandeur  ;  for  in  his  retirement  be  ^vill  per- 
ceive that  true  greatness  frequently  begins  at  that  pe- 
riod of  life  which  statesmen  are  apt  to  consider  as  a 
dreary  Toid  ;  he  will  discover  that  the  regret  of  being 
no  longer  able  to  do  more  good,  is  only  ambition  in 
disguise  :  and  feel  tliat  the  inhabitants  of  the  country, 
in  cultivating  their  cabbages  and  asparagus,  are  a  huQ- 
dred  times  happier  than  the  greatest  Minister. 

Under  such  circumstances  it  is  only  necessary  to 
to  be  contented  with  one's  self,  to  forget  the  superflu- 
ities of  life,  and  to  render  the  little  we  posses  as  pala- 
table as  possible,  Thefirst  year  which  Petrarch  pas- 
sed at  Vaucbise  he  was  almost  always  alone,had  no  other 
company  than  his  dog,  no  other  servant  than  a  neigh- 
bouring fisherman,  who  served  him  with  every  thing 
he  wanted.  I'he  domesticks  who  atter.ded  him  at 
Avignon^  not  being  able  to  accustom  themselves  to  this 
manner  of  living,  quitted  his  service.  Beside,  he  was 
badly  lodged,  having  only  one  podr  cottage  for  his  re- 
sidence, which  he  afterwards  rebuilt  without  any  art, 
merely  to  render  it  tenantable,  and  even  the  traces  of 
which  no  longer  remain.  His  fare  was  coarse  and 
frugal ;  nothing  that  flatters  the  senses  was  to  be  setn 
there.  His  best  friends  therefore  called  upon  him 
very  seldom j  and  when  they  came,  their  visits  were 
very  short  ;  othfers  only  visited  him  i'rom  the  same 
charitable  feelings  which  lead  men  to  the  chamber  of 
the  sick,  or  the  dungeon  of  ih-  prisoner.  He  wrote 
to  his  friend  Philip  de  Carrabole,  Bishop  of  Ca» 
•valllon^  who  was  then  at  Naples,  "  Let  others  run 
"  after  riches  and  honours  ;  let  them  be.  Princes  and 
'^  Kings  ;  I  shall  never  attempt  Ki  impede  their  ca- 
"  reer.  I  am  contented  with  the  humble  character  of 
'*  Poet,  An  1  why,  my  good  Biskcp,  will  you  con- 
"  tinually  wander  from  place  to  place  merely  to  dis- 
"  cover  the  road  to  r^erferment  ?  You  know  the  snares 
<'  which  are  laid  in  the  Courts  of  Princes,  the  anxie- 


ON  THE  MINB  AND  THK  HEART,        239 

«<  ties  which  corrode  the  heart,  the  risques  which  ar^ 
"  run,  and  the  storms  to  which  Hie  is  exposed  ther^. 
^^  Retain  therefore  to  your  diocese,  return  to  tranqui- 
"  lity  and  reposCi  You  may  do  this  with  honour, 
"  while  fortune  smiles  upon  you.  You  will  there 
"  find  every  thing  you  can  desire.  Leave  superfluity 
^'  to  the  avaricious.  The  roon^s,  although  not  decq- 
"  rated  with  tapestry,  are  conimodiously  furnished. 
"If  our  table  is  not  sumptuous,  yet  we  have  some- 
"  thing  at  least  to  satisfy  hunger.  Our  beds  are  not 
"  covered  with  gold  and  purple,  but  we  do  not  sleep  \p. 
"  them  with  less  comfort.  The  hour  of  death  ap^ 
<'  proaches,  and  warns  me  to  renounce  all  the  extra- 
"  vagant  vanities  of  life.  To  cultivate  my  gardens  is 
^'  nov/  the  only  pleasure  I  pursue.  I  plaint  fruit-trees, 
*'  in  hope  that  while  I  am  fishing  on  my  rocks,  they 
^^  will  cover  me  with  their  shade.  But  my  trees  are 
*'  old,  and  require  to  be  replaced ;  I  must  therefore 
"  request  that  you  will  desire  your  attendants  to 
^'  bring  me  some  plants  of  the  peach  and  pear  tree 
"  from  Naples.  The  enjoyments  of  my  old  age  are 
^^  purchased  by  labour  ;  and  I  live  in  the  expectation  of 
^'  future  pleasures,  which  I  intend  to  participate  with 
**  you  alone  :  th»s  is  w^iat  the  Hermit  on  the  banks  of 
**  the  Sergue  writes  to  you  from  the  middle  of- the 
«  forest." 

Solitude,  however,  will  not  procure  us  all  these 
advantages,  unless  v/e  renounce  the  jjiania  of  rcfinmg 
upon  happiness.  By  endeavouring  to  make  things 
better  than  they  are,  we  forget  all  that  is  good.  He 
who  always  views  things  on  the  unfavourable  side, 
who  wishes  that  all  those  things  which  are  wrong,  and 
which  ought  to  remain  wrong,  v/ere  made  right,  vo- 
luntarily surrenders  a  large  portion  of  his  pleasures  ; 
for  without  so  great  a  number  of  Wrongheads  in  the 
world,  life  would  not  be  half  so  entertain g  as  it  is. 

To  live  happily,  it  is  an  excellent  maxim  to  tal?,e 


240  THE  IKFLUEICCE   OF    SOXlTUDl: 

things  just  as  they  are  ;  or  to  adixjit,  with  a  celebrat- 
ed Gerraan  philosopher,  as  the  foundation  of  all  mora- 
lity, that  it  is  our  duty  to  do  as  much  good  as  possi- 
ble, and  to  be  contented  with  every  thing  as  we  find 
it.  This  species  of  morahty  is  certainly  founded  in 
toleration  and  good  nature  ;  but  it  is  apt  to  degenerate 
too  easily  into  a  looser  kind  of  philosophy,*  which  pro- 
duces nothing  good,  in  daring  minds,  and  does  not 
render  the  people  free.  It  is  true,  however,  that  there 
is  no  character  in  the  world  so  unhappy  as  he  who  is 
continually  finding  fault  with  every  thing  he  sees. 

My  barber  at  Hanover,  while  he  was  preparinp^  to 
shave  me,  exclaimed  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  It  is  terrible 
hot  to-day."  "  You  place  Heaven,"  said  I  to  hinr,  - 
"  in  great  difficulties  ;  for  these  nine  months  last  pai?>t,  ^ 
*^  you  have  regularly  told  me  every  other  day,  «  It  is 
«^  terribly  cold  to  day."  Cannot  the  Almighty,  then, 
any  longer  govern  the  Universe,  without  these  gentle- 
men-barbers finding  something  to  be  discontented 
with  ?  "  Is  it  not,"  I  asked  him,  "  much  better  to 
<'  take  the  seasons  as  they  change,  and  to  receive  with 
«  equal  gratitude,  from  the  hands  of  God,  the  winter's 
<«  •old  and  summer's  warmth  ?"— ,"  Oh  !  certainly," 
i>eplied  the  barber. 

I  may,  therefore,  with  certainty  maintain,  that 
competency  and  content  are,  in  general,  highly  bene- 
ficial to  mankind ;  and  that  under  many  circumstances, 
Solitude  favours  both  the  one  and  the  other. 

One  of  the  advantages  we  still  owe  to  Solitude  is, 
that  it  enables  us,  by  habit,  to  relinquish  the  society  of 
men.  For  as  it  is  impossible  always  to  procure  agree- 
able and  interesting  company,  we  soon  lose  the  desire 

*  "  Let  the  world  go  as  it  fileases^**  says^an  ingenious 
m^riter  ;  "  to  do  one's  duty  tolerably  well,  and  speak  at* 
^ays  in  praise  of  the  good  Prior ^'^  is  an  ancient  7naxim 
of  the  monks  ;  but  it  may  lead  the  discipline  of  convents 
imo  a  state  of  mediocrity ^  relaxation  and  €ontem/it» 


ON   THE,  MIND    AKD   THE   MKART*  241 

to  attain  it  ;  and  console  ourselves  ^rith  the  idea  that 
it  is  incomparably  more  easy  to  drive  away  languor 
lind  discontent  in  retirement  than  in  the  world.  Be- 
sides, as  it  very  rarely  happens  that  on  quitting-  a  pub- 
lick  assembly,  we  enter  with  great  good  humour  into 
the  examination  of  ourselves,  this  ought  to  be  still  ano- 
ther reason  to  induce  us  the  more  easily  to  renounce 
iu  The  less,  therefore,  we  form  connections  with 
other  men,  the  more  we  are  qualified  for  an  inter- 
course with  ourselves,  independent  of  all  acquaintance 
with  the  world. 

It  is  frccjuently  diiTicult  to  find  an  amiable  and  sen- 
sible character  with  whom  we  may  form  connections, 
and  to  whom  we  can  freely  communicate  our  thoughts, 
our  pleasures,  and  our  pains.  In  this  case,  nothing: 
but  employment  and  activity  can  divert  our  minds. 
The  idle  and  unemployed  not  being  able  to  drive  away 
lassitude  and  discontent  by  yawning,  expect  that  re- 
lief from  the  coming  on  of  time,  which  the  industrious 
enjoy  every  moment  of  their  lives.  The  coldness  of 
indolence  freezes  all  the  functions  of  the  heart  ;  and 
|:he  dread  of  Jabour  poisons  every  pleasure.  But  tiie 
man  who  seriously  adopts  some  useful  course  of  life, 
who  immediately  executes  whatever  his  station  calls 
upon  him  to  perform,  always  enjoys  a  contented 
mind.  To  him  the  day  appears  too  short,  the  night 
too  long.  Vexation  and  disquietude  vanish  from  the 
breast  of  him  who  never  leaves  for  the  performance  of 
to-morrow  that  which  may  be  done  to-day,  who  makes 
himself  master  of  the  present  moment,  and  does  not 
indiscreetly  rely  upon  an  uncertain  futurity. 

A  situation  in  a  small  village,  or  a  country  retire- 
ment, is  best  suited  to  this  species  of  employment. 
The  great  world  is  a  scene  of  agitation  from  mornmg 
to  night,  although,  strictly  speaking,  nothing  is  done 
during  the  day.  In  a  small  village,  or  more  sequest- 
ered situation,  the  mind  has  time  to  think  ;  >ve  view 

w 


24S  THE    INFLUENCE  OF    SOLITUDE 

every  object  with  more  interest  ;  and  discharge  every 
duty  witii  higher  pleasure.  Wc  do  not  read  as  thq 
world  reads,  merely  to  say  that  we  have  read,  but  to 
enjoy  and  benefit  by  the  good  which  our  reading  af 
for'ds.  Every  thing  we  read  in  silence,  in  tranquility, 
sinks  deep  into  the  mind,  unites  itself  more  closely 
v/ith  our  thoughts,  and  operates  more  forcibly  on  the 
heart.  A  judicious  use  of  time  in  such  a  situation, 
soon  lessens  our  inclination  to  society,  and,  at  length, 
we  esteem  ourselves  completely  happy  in  finding  it 
totally  extinguished. 

For  this  reason,  the  silence  of  the  country  proves, 
frequently,  to  the  female  mind,  the  school  of  true 
philosophy.  In  England,  v/here  the  face  of  nature  is 
so  beautiful,  and  where  the  inhabitants  are  hourly  ad- 
ding new  embellishments  to  her  charms.  Rural  Life 
possesses  in  itself  inexpressible  delights  :  but  among 
that  active  people,  the  love  of  Solitude  is,  perhaps,  in 
general,  much  stronger  in  the  women  than  the  men, 
The  nobleman  who  employs  the  day  in  riding  over  his 
estate,  or  in  following  the  hounds,  does  not  enjoy  the 
Solitude  of  rural  life  with  the  same  pleasure  as  his  la- 
dy, who  employs  her  time  in  needle-work,  or  in 
reading,  in  her  romantick  pleasure  grounds,  some  in- 
structive or  affecting  work.  In  England,  where  ideas 
flow  so  rapidly,  v/here,  in  general,  the  people  love  so 
much  to  think,  the  calm  of  retirement  becomes  more 
valuable,  and  the  enjoyments  of  the  m.ind  more  inte- 
resting. The  learning  which  has  at  present  so  consi- 
derably increased  amon«;  the  ladies  of  Germany, 
certainly  owes  its  origin  to  rural  life  ;  for  among  those 
who  pass  much  of  their  time  in  the  country,  who  lead 
a  life  of  retirement,  and  read  only  for  their  improve-r 
ment,  we  find,  in  general,  incomparably  more  true 
wit  and  sentiment  than  among  the  beaux  esjirits  of 
the  metropolis. 

How  would  those  who  occasionally  reside  in  the 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  243 

country  abridge  the  time  of  their  residence  in  town, 
if  they  weiglied  and  felt  the  advantages  oi  a  rural  si- 
tuation !  The  frivolous  enjoyments  of  the  metropolis 
would  then  vex  and  disgust  their  minds  ;  they  would 
soon  be  discontented  to  see  men  employ  time  with  so 
little  improvement  to  themselves  ;  in  running  inces- 
santly after  every  thing  that  is  strange,  devoting  their 
whole  lives  to  dress,  gaming,  paying  visits,  witliout 
ever  resigning  themselves  to  those  sublime  reflections 
which  elevate  and  ennoble  the  heart.  Possessed  of 
goodness,  liberality,  and  simplicity,  a  country  life,  after 
having  lived  in  town,  affords  so  many  opportunities  of 
being  happy,  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  languid  or  dis- 
contented, provided  we  are  neither  negligent,  idle,  «ickj 
or  in  love. 

How  sweet,  how  consoling  it  is,  in  the  tranquility  of 
retirement,  to  call  to  rcm.embrance  our  absent  friends  ! 
Ahy,  this  remembrance  alone  makes  us  taste  again  in 
Solitude  all  the  pleasures  we  have  enjoyed  in  their 
society. — ^'  You  are  far  rem.oved,  but  I  am  notwith- 
withstanding  always  near  to  you.  Tliere  i&  the  place 
where  you  used  to  sit.  I  have  the  identical  chair  still 
by  me.  You  gave  me  that  picture  ;  that  charming, 
tranquil,  landscape.  With  what  soft  effusion,  with 
what  a  natural  overflow  of  feeling  and  sentiment  we 
enjoyed  the  viev/  of  that  engraving,  upon  those  lively 
images  of  a  happy  tranquility  1  Is  it  possible  to  be  un- 
happy, we  may  exclaim,  when  we  never  live  with 
higher  joy,  with  greater  activity,  never  feel  the  plea- 
sures of  hope  and  expectation  wdth  more  reined  de- 
light, than  when  we  are  only  one  day's  journey  from 
each  other  1" — By  the  aid  of  these  artifices  of  imagi-^ 
nation,  these  flattering  illusions,  which  Solitude  sug- 
gests, two  friends,  separated  by  the  greatest  distance, 
may  live  in  continual  intercourse  with  each  other,  even 
when  separated  by  oceans  j  when  each  no  longer  lis- 


244t  THE  IXFLUEXCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

tecs  to  the  voice,  or  distinguishes  the   approaching 
steps  of  the  object  he  loves. 

Friends  whom  destiny  has  separated  from  each 
other,  do  not  any  where  feel  their  sentiments  so  noble 
and  refined  as  in  those  places  where  nothing  interrupts 
this  soft  intercovirse,  and  where  the  pleasures  of  the 
world  cannot  interpose  between  their  hearts.  Mutual 
iil-humour,  those  mortifications  which  a  commerce 
with  the  world  daily  inflicts,  and  a  number  of  little 
accidents,  may  sometimes  lessen  the  delight  which 
the  company  of  the  dearest  friend  would  otherwise  af- 
ford. In  these  unhappy  moments,  the  mind  is  only 
influenced  by  the  temporary  feehngs  of  the  heart,  and 
never  once  recurs  to  those  friendly  intercourses  which 
once  prevailed,  when  engaged  in  the  most  important 
aflairs,  and  to  which  it  will  soon  again  return 
forever.  He  who  until  this  time  had  attracted  my 
iove,  now  repels  it  by  ill-humour  ;  and  how  many 
agreeable  sentiments,  how  many  of  the  most  delight- 
ful pleasures  of  my  life  would  be  losst,  if  I  were  always 
to  forget  the  past  in  the  present,  and  to  answer  Lis 
peevishness  by  my  ill-humour  !  A  short  vexation,  and 
that  little  subacid  humour  which  may  sometimes  arise, 
only  obscures,  for  one  instant,  the  flattering  image  un- 
der which  my  friend  is  accustomed  to  appear  before 
me,  whose  presence  always  raises  such  delightful 
sensations  in  my  heart,  diffuses  felicit)^  and  pleasure 
over  my  life,  charms  every  vexation  from  my  breast, 
banishes  my  ill-humour,  and  who,  until  the  present 
moment,  has  ever  concealed  his  ill-humour  from  my 
view.  This  must  be,  without  doubt,  the  privilege  of 
intimacy.  But  friends  ought  not  to  wreak  their  dis- 
contents on  each  other  ;  friends  who  have,  heretofore, 
shared  together  in  all  the  misfortunes  of  life,  who  have 
mutually  suffered  for  and  endeavoured  to  relieve,  the 
feelii.gs  of  each  other's  breast.  Friendship  demands 
sincerity,  but    she    also,   in   common   benevolence, 


©^^  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAKT.  245 

demands  a  mutual  indulgence  and  accommodation  ;  and 
requires  that  mildness  should  be  opposed  to  anger,  and 
patience  to  ill-humour.  This,  however,  can  never 
happen,  where  each  indulges  the  asperities  of  his  tem- 
per, and,  crossed  by  the  embarrassments  of  life,  be- 
comes peevish,  forgets  every  attention  and  civihty 
himself,  and  complains  that  they  are  not  observed  to 
bim.  But  how  quickly  do  all  these  inconveniences 
disappear  in  Solitude!  SoUtude  sanctities  the  memory 
of  those  we  love,  and  cancels  all  recollection  but  that 
which  contributes  to  the  enjoyments  of  Friendship  I 
Constancy,  security,  confidence,  there  appear  again  in 
all  their  brightness,  and  re-assume  their  empire  in  the 
heart.  Every  puise  of  the  soul  beats  in  perfect  har- 
mony :  I  listen  with  pleasure  to  my  friend,  he  attends 
to  me  in  return  ;  although  distant,  he  is  always  near 
to  me  ;  I  communicate  to  him  all  my  thoughts,  and 
all  my  sensations.  I  preserve,  as  sacred  to  our  friend- 
ship, all  the  flowers  that  he  strews  over  the  thorny 
path  of  my  life  ;  and  all  those  which  I  can  perceive, 
I  gather  for  him. 

Solitude  not  only  refines  the  enjoyments  of  friend- 
Ship,  but  places  us  in  a  situation  to  gain  friends,  wiiom 
neither  time  nor  accident  can  take  away,  from  whom 
nothing  can  alienate  our  souls,  and  to  whose  arms  we 
never  fly  in  vain. 

The  friends  of  Petrarch  sometimes  wrote  to  him, 
apologizing  for  not  having  been  to  see  him.  "  It  is 
"  impossible  to  live  with  you,"  say  they  ;  "  the  hfe  * 
"  which  you  lead  at  Vaucluse  is  repugnant  to  human 
**  nature.  In  winter,  you  sit,  like  an  owl,  with  your 
"  face  over  the  fire  ;  in  the  summer,  you  are  inces- 
♦'  santly  running  about  the  fields  :  seldom  does  one 
"  find  you  seated  under  the  shade  of  a  tree." — Pe- 
trarch smiled  at  these  representations  :  "  These 
*^  people,"  said  he,  "  consider  the  pleasures  of  the 
**  world  as  their  supreme  good  j  and  conceive  that  one 
W   2 


245  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

<'  ought  not  to  renounce  them*  I  possess  a  number 
'«  of  friends,  whose  society  is  extremely  agreeable  to 
<*  me.  They  are  of  all  countries,  and  of  all  ages  ;  they 
"  are  distinguished  in  war,  in  politics,  and  in  the  sci- 
"  ences.  It  is  very  easy  to  acquire  them  ;  they  are 
''  always  at  my  service  :  I  call  for  their  company, 
''  and  send  them  away  whenever  I  please  ;  they  are 
'^  never  troublesome,  and  immediately  answer  all  my 
*'  questions.  Some  relate  to  me  the  events  of  ages 
*'  past  ;  others  reveal  the  secrets  of  nature  :  these 
''  teach  me  how  to  live  with  happiness,  and  those  how 
^'  to  die  in  quiet  :  these  drive  away  every  care  by  the 
"  enjoyment  they  afford  me,  and  increase  my  gaiety 
'^  by  the  liveliness  of  their  wit;  while  there  are  others 
^'  who  harden  my  heart  against  sufferings,  teach  me 
*'  to  restrain  my  desires,  and  to  depend  only  o|i  my- 
"  self.  In  one  word,  they  open  to  me  an  avenue  to 
"  all  the  arts,  to  all  the  sciences,  and  upon  their  in- 
*'  formation  I  safely  rely.  In  return  for  these  great 
"  services,,  they  only  require  of  me  a  chamber  in  one 
"  corner  of  my  small  mansion,  where  they  may  repose 
"  in  peace.  In  short,  I  carry  them  with  me  into  the 
"  fields,  vv'ith  the  tranquility  of  which,  they  are  much 
*'  better  pleased  than  with  the  tumults  of  the  town." 

Love  !  the  most  precious  gift  of  heaven,  that  happy 
sensibility  from  which  arises  every  emotion  of  the 
heart,  appears  to  merit  a  distinguished  rank  among 
the  advantages  of  Solitude,  provided  we  manage  this 
powerful  passion  in  such  a  manner  that  it  may  con- 
tribute to  our  happiness. 

Love  associates  itself  willingly  with  the  aspect  of 
beautiful  nature,  ^he  sentiments  excited  by  the  view 
of  a  pleasing  prospect,  inspire  the  tender  heart  with 
love,  and  in  a  higher  degree  than  any  other  agreeable 
emotion  of  the  mind.  The  female  bosom  becomes 
more  susceptible  under  the  silent  shades,  upon  the 
summit  of  a  lofty  mountain;  or^  more  especiallyj  during 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  247 

the  stjllness  of  a  fine  night  ;  and  as  a  violent  emotion 
aiwajjs  operates  more  forcibly  upon  the  weakest  parts, 
enthiisiasm,  sooner  or  later,  draws  aside  and  subjugates 
the  heart. 

Women  most  certainly  feel  with  more  exquisite 
sensibility  than  men,  the  pure  and  tranquil  pleasures 
of  rural  life.  They  enjoy,  in  a  much  higher  degree, 
the  beauties  of  a  lonely  walk,  the  freshness  of  a  shady- 
forest  ;  and  their  naiads  admire,  with  higher  ecstacy, 
the  charms  and  grandeur  of  nature.  There  are  many 
bosoms  apparently  insensible,  in  the  atmosphere  of 
the  metropolis,  which  would,  perhaps,  open  them- 
selves with  rapture  in  the  country..  This  is  the  reason 
why  the  return  of  Spring  fills  every  tender  breast  with 
Love.  "  What  can  more  resemble  Love,"  said  a 
celebrated  German  philosopher,  *'  than  the  feelings 
"  with  which  my  soul  is  inspired,  at  the  sight  of  this 
"  magnificent  valley,  thus  illumined  by  the  sitting 
"  sun." 

Rousseau  felt  an  inexpressble  pleasure  on  viewing 
tlie  early  blossoms  of  the  spring  :  the  arrival  of  that 
season  gave  new  life  to  his  mind.  The  tender  incli- 
nations of  his  soul  increased  at  the  sight  of  a  rich  car- 
pet of  verdure  ;  the  charms  of  his  mistress  and  the 
beauties  of  the  spring  were  in  his  eyes  the  same 
thing.  His  oppressed  heart  was  relieved  by  an  ex- 
tensive and  pleasing  prospect  ;  and  his  respireition 
was  much  easier  while  he  indulged  himself  among  the 
flowers  of  a  garden  or  the  fruits  of  the  orchard. 

Lovers  are  best  pleased  v/ith  retired  situations  ? 
they  seek  the  quietude  of  solitary  places  to  resign 
themselves  to  the  contemplation  of  the  only  object  for 
whom  they  wish  to  live.  Of  what  importance  are  all 
the  transactions  of  cities  to  them,  or  any  thing  indeed 
that  does  not  breathe  or  inspire  the  passion  of  love  ? 
Obscure  chambers,  black  forests  of  firs,  or  lonely 
lakesj  where  they  may  indulge  thck  favourite  reflec- 


248  tHE  INFLUENCE   OF   SOLITUIK 

tions,  are  the  only  confidants  of  their  souis.  Forests, 
filled  with  gloomy  shades,  and  echoing  to  the  tremen- 
dous eagle's  cry,  are  the  same  to  their  minds  as  the 
liveliest  champaign  country^where  a  lovely  shepherdess 
may  be  seen  offering  her  fostering  bosom  to  the  infant 
she  is  nursing,  while  at  her  side  her  well-beloved  part- 
ner sits,  dividing  with  her  his  morsel  of  hard  black 
bread,  a  hundred  times  more  happy  than  all  the  fops 
of  the  town.  A  man  of  sense,  when  in  love,  feels  in 
SI  higher  degree,  all  that  is  elevated,  pleasant,  and 
affecting  in  nature.  Nothing  in  the  world  creates  a 
finer  sensibility,  even  when  the  mind  is  destitute  of  it 
by  nature,  than   lovp:. 

The  softest  images  of  love  spring  up  a  new  in  So- 
litude. Ah  !  how  incfelible  are  the  impressions  made 
by  the  first  blush  of  love,  the  first  pressure  of  the 
hand,  the  first  feelings  of  anger  ag;ainst  the  imperti- 
nent intruder  who  "^hall  interrupt  the  tender  inter- 
course !  It  has  been  frequently  conceived,  that  time 
-extinguishes  the  flame  which  love  has  once  lighted 
in  our  breasts  ;  but  love  has  agents  in  the  soul  that 
lie  long  concealed,  who  wait  only  for  a  proper  mo- 
ment to  display  their  power.  It  is  the  same  with  the 
whole  course  of  youthful  feelings ;  and  especially 
with  every  remembrance  of  our  first  affection  ;  deli- 
cious recollection  !  which  we  love  so  fondly  to  trace 
back  in  our  minds- 

The  impression  is  indelible,  the  bosom  for  ever  re- 
tains a  sense  of  that  highest  extacy  of  love,  which  a 
connoisseur  has  said,  with  as  m.uch  truth  as  energy, 
proclaims  for  the  first  time  that  happy  discovery,  that 
fortunate  moment,  when  two  lovers  perceive  their 
mutual  fondness*. 

*  No  fierson  haff  described  the  recollection  of  thatprecU 
otts  moment  imth  so  much  harmony^  sntftetness^  tendernessy 
and  sentiment y  as  Rov 5 ^ZAv,    *'*  Precious  moments^  so 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  249 

A  mind  fond  of  reflecting  in  retirement  on  the  pas- 
sion of  love,  and  which  has  experienced  its  pleasures, 
feels  again  in  these  ever-recurring  thoughts  the  most 
delicious  enjoyments.  Herder  says,  "  He  does 
•*  not  know  who  the  people  in  Asia  were,  whose  my* 
<<  thology  thus  divided  the-epochs  of  the  most  remote 
*'  antiquity  :  That  men,  once  more  become  celestial 
"  spirits,  were  immediately  beloved  during  a  thou- 
*V  years,  first  by  looks,  then  by  a  kiss,  afterwards  by 
^*  alliance."  This  was  the  rioble  and  sublime  passion 
which  WiELAND  felt,  during  the  Warmest  moments 
of  his  youth,  for  a  lady  of  Zuncli^  handsome,  arniable, 
.and  sensible  ;  for  that  great  genius  well  knew  that  the 
mystery  of  love  begins  in  the  first  sigh,  and  expires, 
in  a  certain  degree,  with  the  first  kiss.  I  therefore 
one  day  asked  this  young  lady,  when  Wieland  had 
kissed  her  for  the  first  time.  "  Wieland,"  replied 
the  lovely  girl,  "  kissed  my  hand  for  the  first  time 
"  four  years  after  olir  acquaintance  commenced." 

But  the  minds  of  young  persons  who  live  in  retire- 
ment, do  not,  like  Wieland,  seize  on  the  my  stick  re- 
fi^nements  of  love.  Listening  attentively  to  all  those 
sentiments  which  the  passions  inspire,  less  familiar 
with  their  abstractions,  their  minds  seldom  taken  off . 
by  other  ideas,  they  feel,  at  a  much  earlier  age,  in  the 
tranquility  of  Solitude,  that  irresistable  impulse  to  the 
union  of  the  sexes  which  nature  inspires.  A  lady  of 
my  acquaintance  who  lived  upon  the  banks  of  the  Lake 
of  Genevan,  in  silent  Solitude,  and  separated  from  all 
connexion  with  the  world,  had  three  daughters,  brunei 
fiiquantes^  all  of  them  extremely  beautiful  in  their 
persons,  and  equally  amiable  in  their  manners.  When 
the  eldest  was  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  and   the 

•*  much  regretted  !  Oh  /  begin  again  your  delightful 
*'  course  ;  flow  on  with  longer  duration  in  my  remem* 
**  brance^  if  it  be  possible .,  than  you  did  in  reality  in  your 
^^  fugitive  succession  " 


250  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

youngest  was  about  nine,  they  were  presented  with  ti 
tame  bird,  which  hopped  and  flew  about  their  cham* 
ber  the  whole  day.  The  young  ladies  required  no 
other  amusement,  soug:ht  no  other  employment,  ex- 
cept that  of  placing  themselves  on  their  knees,  and 
with  unwearied  delight  ofFenng  their  lovely  little 
favourite  a  piece  of  biscuit  from  their  fingers  for 
hours  together,  in  order  to  lure  him  to  their  bosoms.* 
The  bird,  however,  the  momient  he  hfid  got  the  bis- 
cuit, with  cunning  coyness  disappointed  their  expecta- 
tions, and  hopped  away.  The  bird  died.  A  year 
after  this  event,  the  youngest  of  the  three  sisters  said 
to  her  mother,  "  Oh,  the  dear  httle  bird,  mamma  ! 
«'  if  we  could  but  procure  such  another  !"— "  No,'* 
replied  her  eldest  sister,  "  what  I  should  like  better 
"  than  any  thing  else  in  the  world,  is  a  little  dog.  We 
"  may  at  least  be  able  to  touch,  to  hug,  to  take  a  lit- 
"  tie  dog  upon  one's  knees  ;  but  a  bird  is  good  for 
"  nothing  :  he  perches  a  little  while  on  your  finger, 
^'  fiies  away,  and  there  is  no  catching  him  again.  But 
"  with  a  httle  dog,  O  what  felicity  i" 

I  shall  never  forget  the  poor  religieuse  in  Vvhose 
apartment  I  founa  a  breeding-cage  of  canary-birds ; 
nor  forgive  myself  for  having  burst  into  a  fit  of  laugh- 
ter at  the  sight  of  this  aviary.  Alas  !  it  was  the  sug- 
gestion of  nature,  and  who  can  resist  what  nature 
suggests?  This  mystick  wandering  of  religious  minds, 
this  celestial  epilepsy  of  love,'  this  premature  fruit 
of  Solitude,  is  only  the  fond  application  of  one  natural 
inclination  raised  superior  to  all  others. 
•  Absence  and  tranquility  appear  so  favourable  to  the 
passion  of  love,  that  lovers  frequently  chuse  to  quit 
the  beloved  object,  and  to  reflect  in  Solitude  on  her 
charms.  Who  does  not  recollect  to  have  read  in  the 
confessions  of  Rousseau  the  story  related  by  Ma- 
dame BE  Luxembourg,  of  the  man  who  quitted 
the  company  of  his  mistress  only  that  he  might  have 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  551 

the  pleasure  of  writing  to  her  1  Rousseau  told  MAr 
SAME  DE  Luxembourg  that  he  wished  he  had  been 
that  man  ;  and  he  was  right.  In  fact,  who  has  ever 
loved;  and  does  not  know,  that  there  are  times  when 
the  pen  expresses  the  feeUngs  of  the  heart  infiniteiy 
better  than  the  voice  with  its  miserable  organ  of 
speech,  which  is  nothing,  and  expresses  nothing  ? 
Who  is  ever  more  eloquent  than  loyers  in  those  mo- 
ments of  extacy  when  they  gaze  on  each  other,  and 
are  silent. 

LovjLRS  not  only  feel  with  Wgher  extacies,  but  ex-: 
press  their  sentiments  with  greater  happiness,  in  Soli- 
tude, than  in  any  other  situation.  What  fashionable 
lover  has  ever  painted  his  passion  for  an  imperious 
mistress  with  the  same  felicity  as  the  chorister  of  a 
village  in  Hanover  for  a  young  and  beautiful  country 
girl  ?  On  her  death,  the  chorister  raised  in  the  ceme- 
tery of  the  cathedral  a  sepulchral  stone  to  her  memory, 
and  carving  in  an  artless  manner  the  figure  of  a  Rose 
on  its  front,  inscribed  these  words  underneath : 
f'  C'esi  ainsi  qiCelle  fut,^^ 

It  was  under  the  rocks  of  Vaucluse,  or  in  desarts 
still  more  solitary,  that  Petrarch  composed  his  fin- 
est sonnets,  deploring  the  absence,  or  complaining  of 
/tho  cruelty,  of  his  beloved  Laura.  In  the  opinion 
of  the  Italians,  Petrarch  wrote  better  upon  the 
subject  of  love  than  all  the  other  poets  in  the  world 
before  or  since  his  tiriie,  whether  in  the  Greek,  Latin, 
or  Tuscan  languages.  "  Ah  1  that  pure  and  tender 
"  language  of  the  heart  I"  say  they,  "  nobody  po^- 
"  sessed  any  knowledge  of  it  but  Petrarch,  who 
"  added  to  the  three  Graces  a  fourth,  viz.  the  Grace 
"  of  Delicacy." 

But  in  lonely  situations,  in  old  romantick  castles,  in 
the  heated  imagination  of  impetuous  youth.  Love  also 
frequently  assumes  a  more  outre  and  extravagant  cha- 
racter.    To  warm  enthusiastick  minds,  religion,  lovc/ 


252  THE  INFLUENCE   OF   SOLITUDE 

md  melancholy,  make  a  sublime  and  whimsical  com- 
pound of  the  feelings  of  the  heart.  An  ardent  young 
inan,  when  he  is  inclined  that  his  mistress  should  be 
serious,  takes  from  the  Apocalypse  the  text  of  his 
first  declaration  of  love  ;  for  love,  he  exclaims,  is  but 
an  eternal  melancholy  ;  and  when  he  is  inclined  to 
sharpen  the  dart  within  his  breast,  his  exalted  imagi- 
nation views  the  beloved  object  as  the  fairest  model  of 
divine  perfection. 

Our  two  angels,  in  their  ancient  castle,  no  longer 
love  like  souls  less  pure  and  noble  ;  their  sentiments 
more  refined^  are  also  more  sublime.  Surrounded  by 
rocks,  and  impressed  by  the  silence  of  a  fine  night, 
the  beloved  youth  is  not  only  a  man,  kind,  rational, 
»nd  honest,  he  is  a  Qod*.  The  inspired  mind  of  the 
iond  female  fancies  her  bosom  to  be  the  sanctuary  of 
love,  and  conceives  her  affection  for  the  youthful  idol 
pf  her  heart,  to  be  an  emanation  from  heaven,  a  ray 
of  the  divinity  itself.  Ordinary  lovers,  without  doubt, 
in  spite  of  absence,  unite  their  souls  with  each  other, 
write  by  every  post,  seize  all  occasions  to  converse 
with  each  other,  or  to  hear  ea^h  other  speak  ;  but  our 
female,  more  sublime,  more  exalted,  introduces  into 
her  romance,  all  the  butterflies  she  meets  with,  all  the 
feathered  songsters  of  the  groves  ;  and,  except  per- 
haps her  husband,  fihe  no  longer  sees  any^  thing  in  the 
world  such  as  it  is.  The  senses  are  nothing  ;  refine- 
ment directs  all  her  movements.  She  tears  the  world 
from  its  poles,  and  the  sun  from  its  axis,  to  prove  that 

*  "  When  the  passion  of  Love  is  at  its  height,'*  sajs 
Roussf.au,  "  it  arrays  the  beloved  object  in  every  possi- 
^'  ble  perfection  ;  makes  it  an  idol,  places  it  in  heaven  : 
^*  and  as  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  borrows  the  language 
*'  of  love,  the  enthusiasm  of  love  also  borrows  the  lan- 
*'  guage  of  devotion.  The  lover  beholdsiiothing  but  para^ 
*'  dise,  angels,  the  virtues  of  the  saints,  and  the  felicitief 
^  of  heaven.** 


(i^  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  25^ 

she  does,  all  she  wishes,  is  right.  She  establishe«i 
a  new  gospel  and  a  new  system  of  morality  for  her- 
self and  her  lover.  These  effects  of  Love  cannot  be 
•avoided  by  any  of  the  advantages  of  Solitude.  Love  even 
X)f  the  most  tranquil  kind,  that  species  which  lies  silent 
in  the  breast,  which  does  not  raise  chiineras  in  the 
mind,  which  does  not  resign  itself  to  the  delirium  of 
an  ardent  imagination,  and  which  is  not  carried  into 
these  excesses,  in  time  consumes  the  lover,  and  ren- 
ders him  miserable.  Occupied  by  the  idea  of  one  ob- 
ject, whom  we  adore  beyond  all  others,  all  the  facul- 
ties of  the  soul  become  absorbed,  and  we  abandon  n 
world  which  for  us  no  longer  possesses  any  charms. 
But  when  we  find  ourselves  separated  for  ever  from 
the  lovely  object  who  has  made  even  the  highest  sac- 
rifice to  us  in  her  power  ;  who  administered  consola- 
tion under  all  the  afflictions  of  our  lives,  afforded  hap- 
piness under  the  greatest  calamities,  and  supported  us 
when  all  the  povv^ers  of  the  soul  had  abandoned  us  ; 
-who  continued  a  sincere  friend  when  every  other 
friend  had  left  us,  when  oppressed  by  domestic  sor- 
rows, when  rendered  incapable  of  either  thought  or 
action  ;  then  to  languish  m  a  slothful  Solitude  be.  *  mes 
-our  only  pleasiire.  The  night  is  passed  in  sleepless 
agonies  ;  while  a  digust  of  life,  a  desire  of  death,  an 
abhorrence  of  all  society,  and  a  love  of  the  most  fright- 
ful desarts,  prey  upon  the  heart,  and  drive  us,  day  af- 
ter day,  wandering  as  chance  may  direct,  through  the 
most  solitary  retirements,  far  from  the  hateful  traces 
of  mankind.  Were  we,  however,  to  wander  from  the 
Elbe  to  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  to  seek  relief  fiom  the 
riorth  to  the  west,  even  to  the  shores  of  the  sea,  we 
should  still  be  like  the  hind  described  in  Vixigil, 

*^  Stung'  v)ith  the  stroke,  and  madding'  ivith  the  fiair.y 
"  She  wildly  Jlies  fro77i  wood  to  tvood  in  vain  ; 
*'  Shoots  o'er  ^//e  Cretan  laivns  with  ?nany  a  bound., 
^^  '^The  cleaving  dart  still  rrinkling'  in  the  wound  /'* 
Virgil,  Book  /F.  line  110, 

X 


25'4  THE  INFLUEJvCE    OF    SOLITUBB 

FEfRARCH  experienced  the  accumulated  Lomentst)f 
love  in  his  new  residence  at  Vaucluse.  Scarcely  had 
he  arrived  there  when  the  image  o^  Laura  incessantly 
haunted  his  mind.  Ka  beheld  her  at  all  times,  hi  eve^ 
ry  place,  under  a  thousand  different  forms.  *'  Three 
'*  times,"  says. he,  "  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  eve- 
"  ry  door  was  closed,  she  appeared  to  me  at  the  feet 
"  of  my  bed  with  a  certain  look  which  announced  the 
*'  power  of  her  charms.  Fciar  spread  a  chilling  deW 
"  over  all  my  limbs.  My  blood  thrilled  through  my 
"  veins  towards  my  heart.  If  any  one  had  then  en- 
'^  tered  my  room  with  a  candle,  they  ^^/ould  have  be- 
"  held  me  as  pale  as  death,  with  every  mark  of  terror 
"  on  ray  face.  Before  day-break,  I  rose  trembling 
'^  from  my  bed,  and  hastily  leaving  my  house,  where 
"  every  thmg  excited  alarm,  I  chmbedto  the  summit 
"  of  the  rocks,  ran  through  the  woods,  casting  my 
"  eyes  continually  around,  to  see  if  the  form  that  had 
"  disturbed  my  repose  still  pursued  me,  I  could  find  . 
'Vno  asylum  ;  in  the  m.ost  sequestered  places,  where 
^'  I  flattered  myself  that  I  shou'd  be  alone,  I  frequentr 
*'  ly  saw  her  issuing  from  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  from 
"  the  head  of  a  clear  spring,  from  the  cavity  of  a  rock. 
"  Fear  rendered  me  insensible,  and  I  neither  knew 
"  what  I  did  nor  where  I  went.'* 

To  an  imagination  subject  to  such  violent  convul- 
sions, Solitude  affords  no  remedy.  Ovid,  therefore^ 
has  very  justly  said,  . 

"  But  Solitude  must  never  be  allotv^d  : 

"  ^  lover's  ne'er  so  safe  as  in  a  crotvd. 

"  For  firivatef daces  private  griefs  increase  ; 

"   IVIiat  haunts  tjou  there ^  in  comjiany  will  ceaae^ 

"  If  to  the  gloomy  desartyou  repair^ 

^^   Yo2ir  mistresH^  angry  form  will  meet  you  there,  ** 

Ovid's  Remedy  of  Love,. 


r- 


0:U  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  255 

Petrarch  learnt  from  the  first  emotions  of  his  pas- 
sion, how  useless  are  all  attempts  to  fiy  from  Love  ; 
and  he  sought  the  rocks  and  forests  in  vain.  There 
is  no  place,  however  savage  and  forlorn,  where  Love 
will  not  force  its  way.  The  pure  and  limpid  stream  of 
Vaucluse,  the  shady  woods  adorning  the  l:t;Ie  valley 
HI  which  the  stream  arose,  appeared  to  him  the  only 
places  to  abate  the  fierceness  of  those  iij*es  v/hich  con- 
sumed his  heart.  The  most  frightful  desarts,  the 
deepest  forests,  mountains  almost  inaccessible,  were 
to  him  the  most  agreeable  abodes.  But  Love  pursu- 
ed his  steps  wherever  he  went,  and  left  him  no  place 
©f  refuge.     His  whole  soul  flew  back  to  Avignon. 

Solitude  also  aifords  no  remedy  for  love  when  it  is 
inku  i-ous  to  virtue.  To  an  honest  mind,  the  presence 
of  the  beloved  object  is  never  dangerous,  although  the 
passion  may  have  taken  a  criminal  turn  in  the  heart. 
On  the  contrary,  while  absence  and  Solitude  foment 
all  the  secret  movements  of  the  senses  and  imagina- 
tion, the  sight  of  the  beloved  object  destroys,  in  a 
virtuous  breast,  every  forbidden  desire  ;  for  in  absence, 
the  lover  thinks  himself  secure,  and  consequently 
indulges  his  imagination  without  restraint.  Solitude, 
more  than  any  other  situation,  recalls  to  the  mind  eve- 
ry voluptuous  idea,  every  thing  that  animates  desire, 
and  inflames  the  heart  :  no  danger  being  apprehend- 
ed, the  lover  walks  boldly  on  in  the  flattering  paths  of 
an  agreeable  illusion,  until  the  passion  acquires  a  dan- 
gerous empire  in  his  breast. 

•  The  heart  o^ FEfRAEcn  was  frequently  stimulated 
by  ideas  of  voluptuous  pleasure,  even  amooK'  th^  rocks 
cf  Vaucluse,  where  he  sought  an  asylum  from  love 
and   L?\ura*,     But  he  soon  banliihcd  senLuaiity  horn 

*  We  read  in  a  varietv  of  books,  now  no  i(;3.c;er  kr.ov.Ti, 
that  Pktrakch  lived  at  Vaucluse  vith  Laui?  a,  and  that 
he  had  formed  a  subterraneous  passage  from  her  house  to 


{256  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

his  mind  :  the  passion  of  iiis  soul  then  became  refined, 
and  acquired  that  vivacity  and  heavenly  purity  which 
breathe  in  every  Hne  of  those  immortal  ly ricks  he 
composed  upon  the  rocks.  The  city  of  Avignon, 
>»here  his  Laura  resided,  was,  however,  too  near 
him,  and  he  visited  it  too  frequently.  A  love  hke  his 
liever  leaves  the  heart  one  moment  of  tranquility  ;  it 
Jls  a  fever  of  the  soul,  which  aiHicts  the  body  with  a 
coraphcation  of  the  most  painful  disorders.  Let  a  lo- 
ver, therefore,  while  his  mind  is  yet  able  to  contrcul 
the  emotions  of  his  heart,  seat  himself  on  the  banks 
of  a  rivulet,  and  think  that  his  passion,  like  the  stream 
^iiich  now  precipitates  itself  with  noise  down  the  rocks, 
may  in  peaceful  shades  and  Solitary  bowers,  flow  across 
the  meadows  und  the  plains  in  silence  and  tranquility. 

his  own.  Petrarch  was  not  so  happy,  Laura  was 
married,  and  lived  v/ith  her  husband,  Hugues  de  Sa- 
DES  at  Avignon,  the  place  of  her  nativity,  and  where  she 
died.  She  was  the  mother  of  eleven  children,  which  had 
so  debilitated  her  constitution,  that  at  live  and  thirty  years 
of  asre,  lao  traces  of  her  former  beauty  remained.  She 
experierxed,  also,  many  domestic  sorrows.  Her  husband 
was  incapable  of  appreciating  the  value  of  her  virtues^, 
and  the  propriety  of  her  conduct.  He  was  jealous  with- 
out cause,  and  even  without  love,  which  to  a  woman  was 
^btill  more  mortifyin;^,  Petrarch  on  the  contrary,  loved 
Laura  during  the  course  of  twenty  years  ;  but  he  was 
never  suffered  to  visit  her  at  her  own  house,  for  her  hus- 
band seldom,  if  ever,  left  her  aWne.  He,  therefore,  had 
no  opportunity  of  beholding  his  charming,  his  amiable 
Laura,  except  at  church,  at  assemblies,  or  upon  the  pub- 
lick  walk?,  and  then  never  elone.  Her  husband  frequently 
forbid  her  to  walk  even  with  her  dearest  friends,  and  liis 
mind  was  rendered  furious  wlien  she  indulged  in  tjje  slight- 
est pleasure.  Laura  was  born  in  the  vear  1S07  o*  1508, 
and  ^vas  two  or  three  vears  younger  than  Petrarch. 
She  died  of  the  plague  in  the  year  lo48.  Seven  years 
after  her  death,  her  husband  married  again,  and  Pe- 
trarch survived  her  till  about  the  commencement  cf  the 
year  13/4. 


11 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  257 

Love  unites  itself  to  tranquility,  when  the  rninfl 
submits  with  humility  to  all  the  dispensaticais  of  hea- 
ven. If,  when  death  bereaves  a  lover  of  the  object  of 
his  alTection,  he  is  unable  to  live  except  in  those  places 
where  she  was  used  to  dM'ell,  and  all  the  world  besides 
looks  desart  and  forlorn,  death  alone  can  stop  the  tor- 
rent of  his  tears.  But  it  is  not  by  yieldinj^  himself  to 
the  pressure  of  his  affliction,  that  he  can  be  sa  d  to 
devote  himself  to  God,  The  lover,  when  oppressed 
by  sorrow,  constantly  attaches  himself  to  the  ci^ject 
which  is  no  more,  and  never  can  return.  Pie  seeks  for 
'What  be  can  never  find  ;  he  listens,  but  hears  nothing  : 
,  be  fancies  that  he  beholds  the  lovely  form  ahve  and 
breathing,  when  it  is  only  a  phantom,  a  visionary 
production  of  his  heated  imagination.  lie  gathers  ro- 
ses from  the  tomb  of  her  on  whom  all  the  happiness 
'^t  his  life  depended  ;  he -waters  them  witli  his  tears, 
cultiv^.tes  them  with  the  tenderest  care,  places  them 
in  his  bosom,  kisses  them  with  rapture,  and  enjoys 
their  soothing  fragrance  with  melancholy  transport ; 
-but  these  pleasures  also  vanish  ;  the  roses  droop  their 
rheads,  and  die.  It  is  not  until  the  lover  has  long; 
Wrestled  with  the  rigours  of  fate,  until  the  arms  have 
long  been  in  vain  extended  to  embrace  the  beloved  ob- 
ject, until  the  eye  has  long  fixed  its  view  upon  the 
cherished  shade,  until  all  hope  of  re-union  is  gone, 
that  the  mind  begins  gradually  to  feel  its  returning 
powers,  assumes  an  hcroick  courage  against  its  mis- 
fortunes, endeavours  to  conquer  the  weakness  of  the 
heart,  and  perceives  the  return  of  its  former  tranqui- 
'lity*  These  cures,  hov/ever,  can  only  be  effected  in 
vigourous  minds,  v/ho  alone  crown  whatever  they  un- 
dertake with  success  ;  vigourous  minds  alone  find  in 
Solitude  that  peace  which  the  whole  universe,  with  all 
its  pleasures  and  dissipations,  cannot  procure. 

The  victory  which  the  virtuous  Petrarch,  ac- 
<juif  ed  over  the  passion  which  assailed  the  heart,  must 

X  a 


258  THE  INFLUENCE   OF    SOLITU0B 

r 

afford  pleasure  to  every  mind.  When  he  sought  re- 
fuge m  Italy  from  I.-ove  and  Laura,  his  friends  in 
France  used  every  endeavour  to  induce  him  to  return. 
One  of  them  wrote  to  him  :  "  What  daemon  posses- 
^'  ses  you  ?  How  could  you  quit  a  country  where  you 
"  have  enjoyed  all  the  dehghts  of  youth,  and  where 
"  that  graceful  person  which  you  formerly  adorned 
*^  Y/ith  so  much  care,  procured  you  so  many  pleasures? 
"  How  can  you  live  thus  exiled  from  your  Laura, 
^  whom  you  love  with  so  much  tenderness,  and  whose 
'^  heart  is  so  deeply  afflicted  by  your  absence  ?" 

Petrarch  replied  :  ^'  Your  anxiety  is  vain  ;  my 
^'  resolution  is  to  continue  where  I  am.  I  am  here  at 
*♦  anchor,  and  neither  the  impetuosity  of  the  Rhonk., 
'•  nor  ihe  charms  of  your  clocjuence,  shall  ever  drive 
^'  me  from  it.  To  persuade  me  to  change  this  reso- 
**  lution,  you  place  before  my  eyes  the  deviations  of 
*'  my  youth,  which  I  ought  to  forget ;  a  passion  which 
"  left  me  no  other  resource  than  a  precipitate  flight, 
"  and  the  contemptible  merit  of  a  handsome  person, 
<•  which  too  long  occupied  my  attention.  The  period 
^'  is  arrived,  when  I  must  no  longer  think  of  those 
*•  follies  ;  I  have  left  them  belund  me  ;  and  I  rapidly 
*'  approach  to  the  end  of  my  career.  My  mind  is 
*'  now  occupied  by  more  serious  and  important  ob- 
'^  jects.  God  forbid,  that  listening  to  your  flattering 
*^  counsel,  I  should  again  throw  myself  into  the  snares 
"  of  LovE^  again  put  on  a  yoke  I  have  already  so  se- 
''  vereiy  felt  1  It  was  consistent  with  the  age  of  youth, 
".  but  T  should  now  blush  to  be  a  subject  of  conversa- 
*<  tion  to  the  v/orld,  and  to  see  myself  pointed  at  as  I 
"  v/alk  along.  I  consider  all  your  solicitations,  and, 
"  indeed,  all  you  tell  me,  as  a  severe  critique  upon 
"  my  conduct.  My  love  of  Solitude  takes  root  at  this 
"  place  ;  I  fly  from  town,  and  stroll  at  random  about 
<*  the  fields,  without  care,  without  inquietude.  la 
"  summer  I  stxetch  myself  beneath  the  shade  upoa 


GN  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEARTj  25$ 

"  the  verdant  turf,  or  saunter  on  the  borders  of 
"  a  purling  stream,  and  defy  the  heats  of  Italy.  On 
"  the  approach  of  autumn  I  seek  the  woods,  and  join 
«  7'HE  Muses  train.  This  mode  of  hfe  appears  to 
*'  me  preferable  to  a  hfe  at  court  ;  a  Hfe  occupied  on- 
"  ly  by  ambition  and  envy.  I  walk  with  pleasure  on 
"  the  plains  of  Italy  ;  the  air  of  the  cHmate  is  to  me 
«'  serene  and  pure.  When  death  shall  put  a  period  to 
"  my  laboors,  I  only  ask  the  consolation  of  reposing 
"  m>  head  upon  the  bosom  of  a  friend,  whose  eyes, 
"  while  he  closes  mine,  will  deplore  my  loss,  and 
"  whose  kind  care  will  convey  me  to  a  tomb  in  th© 
"  bosom  of  my  country." 

These  were  the  sentiments,  the  philosophick  senti- 
ments oi Petrarch  ;  but  he  returned  soon  afterwards 
to  Avignon^  from  whence  he  continued  from  time  to 
time  to  visit  Vaucluse, 

.  PzrA'^ii?^// himself  acknowledges,  vfith  that  frank-' 
ness  which  v/as  natural  to  his  character,  how  much 
his  unsettled  soul  wavered  between  love  and  reason. 
From  his  retirement  at  Vaucluse  he  wrote  to  his 
iv\&^A  Pas'Tp.engo^  "  Perceiving  that  there  is  no  other 
**  way  to  efiect  my  cure  than  to  abandon  Avignon^  I 
"  have  determined  to  leave  it,  notwithstanding  all  the 
*'  efforts  of  my  friends  to  detain  me.  Alas  I  their 
^'  friendship  only  tends  to  render  me  unhappy !  I 
*'  sought  this  Solitude  as  an  asylum  against  the  tem- 
*'  pests  of  life,  and  to  live  here  yet  a  little  while  re* 
*'  tired  and  alone  before  I  die.  I  already  perceive  that 
"  I  am  near  my  end  ;  but  I  feel  with  infinite  pleasure 
"  that  my  mind  is  iiuich  more  free;  and  the  life 
*^  which  I  lead  here  appears  to  me  like  that  of  the 
^'  happy  in  heaven.  Observe,  however,  the  preva- 
<'  lence  of  habit,  and  the  force  of  passion  ;  for  with- 
"  out  having  any  business,  I  frequently  return  to  that 
;"  hateful  city,  I  run  voluntarily  into  the  same  snares 
J^  by  which  I   was  first  caught.     An  adverse  wind 


J^60  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

«  drives  me  from  the  port  which  I  have  entered,  upon 
"  that  troubled  ocean  where  I  have  so  frequently  been 
"  shipwrecked,  I  am  bo  sooner  there  than  I  feel  my- 
"  self  in  a  vessel  tossed  about  by  the  tempest.  I  per- 
*^  ceive  the  heavens  on  fire,  the  sea  raging;,  and  clan« 
*'  gers  surrounding  me  on  every  side.  Death  pre- 
<'  sents  itself  to  my  eyes  ;  but  what  is  still  worse  than 
"  death,  I  turn  from  my  present  life  with  aversion, 
<^  and  dread  that  which  is  to  come*" 

Pas'Thengo  replied  as  a  fri^jnd,  who  knew  not  only 
what  Petrarch  practised,  but  the  kind  of  sentiments 
which  would  make  him  feel  that  which  he  was  delight- 
ed to  perform  :  "  It  is  with  pleasure  I  learn,"  says  he, 
**  that  you  have  burst  open  the  doors  of  your  prison, 
"  shaken  off  your  chains,  and  set  yourself  free  ;  that 
<«  after  a  violent  tempest  you  have  at  last  reached  the 
"  port  you  wished  to  gain,  and  ride  safe  in  the  harbour 
^  of  a  quiet  hfe.  I  can  at  this  distance  discover 
"  every  thing  you  do,  day  after  day,  in  your  retreat 
"  at  Fjucluse.  At  the  earliest  dawn  of  day,  awaken- 
'^  ed  by  the  warbles  of  your  grovcSjand  the  murmui's 
^^  of  your  Spring,  you  climb  the  hills  yet  covered 
<*  with  the  dew,  and  from  thence  view  the  fertile 
^'  plains,  the  cultivated  vallies,  smiling  at  your  feet  ; 
*^  discovering,  nov/  and  then,  the  distant  sea  bearing 
^'  the  freighted  vessels  to  their  ports.  The  tablets 
^*  are  ready  in  your  hand,  to  note  down  tlie  thought-i 
"  which  fill  your  mind.  When  the  sun  rises  above 
"  the  horizon,  you  seek  your  humble  cot,  partake  of 
"  a  frugal  repast,  and  enjoy  undisturbed  repose.  To 
"  avoid  the  meridian  heat  of  the  day,  you  retire  into 
**  the  vales,  where  your  delightful  spring  precipitat- 
<<  ing  over  the  rocks  with  echoing  sounds,  pours  forth 
"  its  wandering  streams,  and  forms  the  charming 
u  river  which  fertilizes  the  valley  of  Fjucluse.  I 
*'  see  the  cavern  through  which  the  water,  sometimes 
^  low  and  tranquil,  enters^  and  where,  even  in  tli© 


«N    THE    MINB    AN»    THE  HEAllT,  261 

<'  hottest  day  of  summer,  there  breathes  so  fresh  an 
*'  air.  Within  the  shades  of  that  grotto,  whose  arch- 
"  ed  and  lofty  roof  h^ngs  o'er  the  moving  crystal  of 
"  the  stream,  I  perceive  you  sitting,  enjoying  with 
"  ravished  eyes  the  enchanting  view  v/hich  lies  before 
<^  you  :  your  imagination  warms,  your  soul  takes  its 
**  intellectual  iHigbt,  and  then  you  produce  your  choi- 
*'  cest  works.  Thus  retired,  you  consider  all  the 
"  vanities  of  this  world  as  a  light  shadow  which  has 
"  passed  away,  and  quietly  renounce  them  to  a  more 
*'  useful  employment  of  your  time.  When  you  quit 
<^  the  grotto  your  tablets  are  full.  Do  not,  however, 
<^  flatter  yourself  that  you  alone  enjoy  these  treasures 
*^  of  your  soul  :  for  mine,  which  never  quits  you, 
^'  participates  with  you  in  this  useful  and  agreeable 
"  enjoyment.'' 

Such  was  the  felicity  which  Pet's  arch  tasted  at 
fAucLUSE  in  the  midst  of  so  many  dangers  ;  a  feli- 
iity  which  love^  too  impatient  for  enjoyment,  can 
never  confer  :  but  Solitude,  judiciously  employed, 
dissipates  all  the  pangs  with  which  this  passion  tears 
the  heat,  and  affords  a  compensation  for  those  plea- 
sures which  it  takes  a^yay.  Nor  are  all  tlie  con- 
solations of  life  lost  in  Solitude  to  the  bosom  of  an  un- 
happy lover.  He  contemplates  without  regret  the 
past  pleasures  of  love  ;  those  short-lived  pleasures 
which  can  no  more  return.  The  time  arrives  when 
he  ceases  to  weep  and  suffer,  and  on  the  bed  of  death, 
he  exclaims  with  a  tranquil  sigh,  "  Oh  !  lovely  ob- 
"  ject  of  my  soul !  if  you  sliould  learn  my  fate,  a 
"  lo7e  like  mine  may  well  deserve  the  tribute  of  a  tear, 
"  and  call  one  gentle  sigh  from  your  relenting  heart. 
n  Forget  my  faults  and  while  my  virtues  live,  let  my 
"  follies  die,  within  your  bosom  1" 

It  was  thus,  in  struggling  against  the  prevalence  of 
his  passion,  that  Petrarch  rose  to  that  sublimity, 
and  acquired  that  richness  of  imagination,  which  dis- 


262  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

tingiiished  his  character.  He  acquired,  even  at  this 
period,  an  ascendency  over  the  age  in  which  he  hved 
greater  than  any  individual  has  since,  in  any  country, 
been  able  to  obtain.  His  mind  passed  ^vith  the  hap- 
piest facility  from  grave  to  gay  subjects  ;  and  he  was 
enabled,  when  occasion  required  it,  to  adopt  the  bold- 
est resohnions,  and  perform  the  most  courageous  ac- 
tions. Petrarch,  who  at  the  feet  of  women  wept, 
sighed,  and  sobbed  like  a  child  ;  who  only  wrote  on 
Laura  the  soft  and  languishing  verses  which  his  pas- 
sion inspired  ;  no  sooner  turned  his  eyes  towards 
Rome  than  his  style  assumed  a  bold  and  manly  tone, 
and  his  letters  were  written  with  all  the  strength  and 
spirit  of  the  Augustan  age.  Monarchs*,  while  they 
read  his  lyric  poetry,  have  forgot  the  calls  of  hunger 
and  the  charms  of  sleep.  At  a  more  advanced  period 
of  his  life,  however,  he  was  no  longer  the  sighing 
Muse  of  Love,  who  only  chaunted  amorous  verses  at 
the  feet  of  his  relentless  mistress  ;  he  was  no  longer 
an  effeminate  slave,  who  kissed  the  chains  of  an  im^ 
perious  female,  from  whom  he  only  received  marks 
of  contempt  and  aversion  ;  but  with  a  republican  in- 
trepidity Petrarch  regenerated  the  love  of  liberty 
throughout  Italy,  and  sound<i^d  the  alarm  against  ty- 
ranny and  tyrants.  A  great  statesman,  a  profound 
and  judicious  minister,  he  was  continually  consulted 
upon  the  most  important  alFaii's  then  transacting  in 
Europe,  and  frequently  employed  in  the  most  arduous 
tiegociations.  A  zealous  friend  to  lumianity,  he  en- 
deavoured upon  all  occasons  to  extinguish  the  torch 
6f  discord.  Possessing  an  extraordinary  genius,  the 
greatest  Princes  solicited  his  company,  endeavoured 

*  Robert  King  of  Naples,  frequently  relirtquislied  the 
most  serious  affairs  to  read  tl^e  works  of  Petharch., 
without  thinking  either  of  his  nieals  or  his  bed. 


I 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  263 


fornf^  their  minds  from  his  opinions,  and  studied 
from  his  precepts  the  great  art  of  rendering  their  sub? 
jects  hcppy. 

By  these  traits  we  discover  that  Petharch  not- 
withstanding the  violence  of  his  passion,  enjoyed  ail 
these  advantages  of  Soiityde.  His  visits  to  Vaucliis|B 
were  not,  as  is  generally  conceived,  that  he  might  be 
nearer  to  Laura  ;  for  Laura  resided  altogether  at 
Avignon  ;  but  that  he  migiit  avoid  the  frowns  of  his 
mistress  and  the  corruptions  of  the  Court.  Seated  in 
his  little  garden,  which  was  situated  at  the  foot  of  ^ 
.lofty  mountain,  and  surrounded  by  a  rapid  stream,  his 
soul  rose  superiour  to  the  adversities  of  his  fate.  He 
possessed  indeed,  by  nature,  a  restless  and  unquiet 
inind  ;  was  frequently  displeased  because  he  was  not 
at  some  distant  place,  to  which  it  was  impossible  he 
(Could  ever  go  ;  frequently  because  he  looked  in  vain 
for  something  which  it  was  impossible  he  should  fin^iL 
JF'EfRARcHy  in  short,  possessed  all  those  defects  v/hich 
generally  accompany  men  of  genius.  But  in  his  mo- 
fnents  of  tranquility,  a  sound  judgement,  joined  to  an 
exquisite  sensibility,  enabled  him  to  enjoy  the  delights 
of  Solitude  superiour  to  any  m-ortal  that  ever  existed, 
either  before  or  since  hi3  time  ;  and  in  these  rnoment^i' 
Vaucluse  v.^as  to  his  feelings,  the  Temple  of  Pcec^, 
the  residence  of  calm  repose,  a  safe  harbour  against 
all  the  tempests  of  the  souL 

-  Solitude,  therefore,  althoiigh  it  cannot  ahvays  con- 
quer Love,  refines  and  sanctifies  the  most  ardent 
flame.  The  passions  which  the  God  of  nature  origin- 
ally planted  in  the  heart  of  man,  ought  to  remain  un- 
destroyed  within  his  breast,  but  he  should  learn  to 
direct  them  to  their  proper  ends.  If,  therefore,  you 
are  inclined  to  be  happier  than  Petrarch,  share  the 
pleasures  of  your  retirement  with  some  amiafele  cha- 
racter, who,  better  than  the  cold  precepts  of  philoso- 
jphy,  will  beguile  or  brinish  by  the  charnis  of  coaver-* 


I 


?64  tHE  INFLiJENCE   OF    SOLITUDE 

sation,  all  the  cares  and  torments  of  life.  A  truly  wise 
man  has  said,  that  the  presence  of  one  thinking  being 
Jike  ourselves,  whose  bosom  glows  with  sympathy  anrf 
Jove,  so  far  from  destroying  the  advantages  of  Solitude, 
renders  them  more  favourable.  If,  like  me,  you  owe 
your  happiness  to  the  fond  affection  of  a  wife,  she  will 
soon  induce  you  to  forget  the  society  of  men,  by  a 
tender  and  unreserved  communication  of  every  senti- 
inents  of  her  mind,  of  every  secret  feeling-  of  her 
heart  ;  and  the  employments,  the  business,  the  vi- 
cissitudes of  life,  wiii  render,  by  their  variety ,'the  sub- 
jects of  confidential  discourse  and  sweet  domestick 
converse  proportionably  diversified. 

The  orator  who  speaks  upon  this   subject  with    so 
tnuch  truth  and  energy,  must  have  felt  with  exquisite 

sensibility  the   pleasures   of  domestick  happiness - 

"  Here,"  says  he,  ''  every  kind  expression  is  remem- 
^'  bered  ;  the  emotion  of  one  heart  re-acts  with  cor- 
^^  respondent  eltects  upon  the  other  ;  every  thought 
"  is  treasured  up  ;  every  testimony  of  affection  rc- 
"  turned  ;  the  happy  pair  enjoy  in  each  other's  com- 
*^  pany  all  the  pleasures  of  the  mind,  and  there  is  no 
*^  feehng  which  does  not  communicate  itself  to  their 
^^  hearts.  To  beings  thus  united  by  the  sincerest  af- 
*^  fection  and  the  closest  UViendship,  every  thing  that 
^'  is  said  or  done,  every  wish  and  every  event  becomes 
*^  mutually  important.  Beings  thus  united,  and  they 
*'  alone,  regard  the  advantages  which  they  severally 
^  possess,  with  a  joy  and  satisfaction  untinctured  by 
"  envy.  It  is  only  under  such  an  union,  that  faults 
<^  are  pointed  out  with  cautious  tenderness,  and  with- 
^  out  ill-nature  ;  that  looks  bespeak  the  inclination  of 
^'  the  soul  ;  that  the  gratification  of  every  wish  and 
*'  desire  is  anticipated  ;  that  every  view  and  mtention 
*'  is  assimilated  ;  that  the  sentiments  of  the  one  con-? 
^  form  to  those  of  the  othpr  ;  and  that  each  rejoices 


dN  THE    MINP    A>;rD   THE    HEART,  265 

i<  with  cordiality  at  the  smallest  advantage  which  the 
"  other  acquires." 

Thus  it  is  that  Solitude  which  we  share  with  an 
amiable  object  procures  us  tranquility,  satisfaction, 
heartfelt  joy  ;  and  the  humblest  cottage  becomes  the 
<lwelling-place  of  the  purest  pleasure.  Love  in  the 
retreats  of  Solitude,  while  the  mind  and  the  heart  arc 
in  harmony  with  each  other,  is  capable  of  preserving 
the  noblest  sentiments  in  the  soul,  o^raising  the  un- 
derstanding to  the  highest  degree  of  elevation,  of  fill- 
iag  the  bosom  with  new  benevolence,  of  rooting  out 
all  the  seeds  of  vice,  of  strengthenmg  and  extending 
all  the  virtues.  The  attacks  of  ill-humour  are  by  this 
means  subdued,  the  violence  of  the  ]>assions  moderat- 
ed,  and  the  bitter  cup  of  affliction  sweetened.  It  is^ 
thus  that  a  happy  love  renders  Solitude  serene,  allevi- 
ates all  the  sufferings  of  the  world,  and  strews  the 
,sweetest  llov/ers  along  the  paths  of  life. 

Solitude  frequently  converts  the  deep  anguish  o^ 
^distress  into  a  soothing  melancholy.  Every  thing 
which  operates  v/ith  gentleness  on  the  soul,  is  a  salu- 
tary balm  to  a  wounded  heart.  This  is  the  reasor]L 
why  every  malady  of  the  body,  every  suffering  of  the 
mind,  feels  such  sensible  effects  from  the  consolatory^ 
.expressions,  the  kind  affability,  the  interesting  anxie- 
ties of  a  virtuous  wife.  Disgusted,  alas  !  by  the  treat- 
,ment  of  the  world,  and  displeased  v/ith  every  thing 
around  me  ;  when  satiety  had  weakened  all  the  vigour 
and  destroyed  every  energy  of  my  soul  ;  when  I  no 
longer  hoped  for  relief  r  when  grief  concealed  all  the 
beauties  of  nature  from  my  eyes,  and  rendered  the 
whole  universe  a  lifeless  tomb,  the  kind  attention  of  a 
wife  conveyed  a  secret  charm,  a  consolatory  virtue  to 
my  mind.  Oh  !  nothing  can  so  sweetly  soften  all  our 
sufferings  as  a  conviction  that  woman  is  not  indiffer- 
ent to  our  f^te. 

y 


266  THE  INJ'LUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

Rural  sceneiy,  of  a  thousand  different  kinds,  afford 
to  the  distracted  bosom  the  same  tranquility,  which  the 
attentions  and  conversations  of  an  amiable  wife  procure 
to  a  sick  and  suffering  husband,  and  change  all  the 
afflictions  of  his  soul,  all  the  oppressions  of  his  mind, 
into  the  softest  sorrow  and  the  mildest  grief. 

Solitude  frequently  inspires  a  soft  melancholy  even 
m  persons  of  the  tcnderest  years.  Young  females, 
from  fifteen  to  eighteen  years  of  age,  who  possess  fine 
scnsibihtles  and  lively  imnginations,  experience  this 
disposition,  when,  in  the  retirement  of  rural  life,  they 
feel  the  first  desires  of  Love  ;  when  wandering  every 
^yhere  in  search  of  a  beloved  object,  they  sigh  for  one 
alone,  although  their  hearts  have  not  yet  fixed  on  any 
particular  object  of  affection.  I  have  frequently  seen 
these  species  of  melancholy,  without  any  other  symp- 
toms of  malady.  Rousseau  was  attacked  with  it  at 
Vev  Ai  upon  the  banks  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  "  My 
"  heart,"  says  he,  "  rushed  with  ardour  from,  my  bo- 
'*  som  into  a  thousand  innocent  felicities  :  melting  to 
'^  tenderness?  I  sighed  and  wept  like  a  child.  How 
^'  frequently,  stopping  to  indulge  my  feelings,  and 
*^  seating  myself  on  a  piece  of  broken  rock,  did  I 
*^  amuse  myself  with  seeing  my  tears  drop  into  the 
'<  stream  !"  I  cannot  myself  transcribe  these  lines 
without  shedding  tears  on  recollecting,  that  in  the 
seventeenth  year  of  my  age,  I  frequently  seated  my- 
self with  similar  agitation  under  the  peaceful  shades 
of  those  delightful  shores.  Love  relieved  my  painf  ; 
Love,  so  sweetly  enjoyed  among  the  groves  which 
a,dorn  the  banks  of  the  Lake  of  G  eneva*  ;  Lpve,  the 

*  There  is  no  native,  or  indeed  any  person  possessing 
sensibility,  of  whatever  country  he  may  be,  who  has  ever 
beheld,  without  feeling  the  tenderest  emotion,  the  dehght- 
ful  borders  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  ;  the  enchanting  spec- 
tacle which  nature  there  exhibits  ;  and  the  vast  and  ma- 
je^tick  horizon  which  that  mass  of  water  presents  to  the 


ON    THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  267 

only  disease  which  Solitude  cannot  cure  ;  and  which 
indeed  we  wilUngly  endure  without  wishing  for  relief. 
To  suffer  with  so  much  softness  and  tranquility  ;  to 
indulge  in  tender  sorrow  without  exactly  knowing 
why,  and  still  to  prefer  retirement ;  to  love  the  lonely 
margin  of  a  limpid  lake  ;  to  wander  alone  upon  broken 
rocks,  in  deep  caserns,  in  dreary  forests  ;  to  feel  no 
pleasures  but  in  the  sublime  and  beautiful  of  nature, 
in  those  beauties  which  the  world  despise  ;  to  desire 
the  company  of  only  one  other  being,  to  whom  we 
may  communicate  the  sensations  of  the  soul,  who 
would  participate  in  all  our  pleasures,  and  forget  every 
thing  else  in  the  universe  ;  this  is  a  condition  which 
every  young  man  ought  to  wish  for,  who  wishes  to 
fly  from  the  merciless  approaches  ot  a  cold  old  age*. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  every  species  of  affliction  that 
Solitude  will  afford  relief*  Oh  !  my  beloved  Hirch- 
FiELD  i  I  can  never  restrain  my  tears  from  flowing 
with  increased  abundance,  wdiencver  I  read,  in  thy 
immortal  work  upon  the  pleasures  of  a  country  life, 
the  following  affecting  passage,  which  always  sinks 
deeply  iitto  my  heart  :  "  The  tears  of  affliction  dry 
<^  up  under  the  sympathising  breath  of  Zephyrs  : 
'^  'the  heart  expands,  and  only  feels  a  tranquil  sorrow. 
*'  The  bloom  of  nature  presents  itself  to  our  eyes  on 
*'  every  side  ;  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  its  fragrance, 

view.  Who  has  ever  retHrned  from  this  scene  without 
turning  back  his  eyes  on  this  interesting  picture,  and  ex- 
periencing the  same  affliction  with  which  the  heart  sepa* 
rates  from  a  beloved  friend,  whom  we  have  no  expectation 
ever  to  see  again  ? 

t  This  reflection  of  Petrarch  is  very  affecting  and 
very  just.  "  Ilhs  annos  egi  tanta  in  rcquie^  tantaquc 
*'  dulccdine  ut  illiidfcrme  temfius  solum  mihi  vitafucrit^ 
"  rellquum  omne  aupfilltium*'  * 


26S  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDii 

*f  we  feel  relief  from  woe.  Every  sad  and  sorrowful  idea 
"  gradually  di&appears.  The  mind  no  longer  rejects 
*'  consolatory  meditations  ;  and  as  the  evening  sun 
^'  absorbs  the  damp  vapours  of  a  rainy  day,  a  happy 
^'  tranquility  dissipates  the  troubles  of  the  soul,  and 
*'  disposes  us  to  enjoy  the  peaceful  charms  of  rural 
«  life." 

There  are,  however,  bosoms  so  alive  to  misfortune, 
that  the  contin\ial  remembrance  of  those  who  were 
ones  dear  to  their  hearts,  preys  upon  their  vitals,  and 
by  slow  degrees  consumes  their  lives.  The  reading 
of  a  single  line,  written  by  the  hand  they  loved,  freezes 
their  blood  :  the  very  sight  of  the  tomb  v/hich  has 
swallowed  up  the  remains  of  all  their  soul  held  dear, 
is  intolerable  to  their  eyes.  On  such  beings,  alas  ! 
the  Heavens  smile  in  vain.  The  early  violet  and  the 
twittering  birds,  proclainang,  with  the  approach  of 
spring,  the  regeneration  of  ail  nature,  bring  no  charms 
to  them.  The  garden's  variegated  hues  irritate  their 
feelings,  and  they  behold  those  retreats  to  which  they 
were  kindly  invited  to  sooth  the  violence  of  their  dis- 
tress, v/ith  horrour,  during  the  remainder  of  their 
,  lives.  They  refuse  to  follow  the  compass*-  nate  hand 
extended  to  lead  them  from  then'  house  of  sorrow,  to 
the  verdant  plains  of  happiness  and  peace.  Such 
characters  generally  possess  warm  and  strong  pas- 
sions ;  but  the  fineness  of  their  feelings  becomes  a 
real  malady  ;  and  they  require  to  be  treated  with 
great  attention  and  with  constant  kindness. 

On  the  contrary,  Solitude  conveys  most  powerful 
charms  to  softer  minds,  although  the  loss  they  have 
experienced  may  not  have  been  less.  They  feel  their 
misfortunes  in  their  full  extent  ;  but  their  feelings 
partake  of  the  tranquility  of  their  nature  ;  they  plant 
upon  the  f^ital  tomb  the  weeping  willow  and  the  ephe- 
-jneral  rose,  as  striking  emblems  of  their  sorrow  and 
misfortune  ;  they   erect  mausoleums,  and  compose^ 


©N  THE    MIND    ANB    THE    HEART.  P69 

funeral  dirges  ;  their  hearts  are  continually  occupied 
by  the  idea  of  those  whom  their  eyes  deplore,  and 
they  exist,  under  the  sensations  of  the  truest  and  most 
sincere  sorrow,  in  a  kind  of  middle  state  between 
earth  and  heaven.  Such  characters,  I  am  conscious, 
feel  misfortunes  to  their  full  extent  ;  but  their  sor- 
rows, provided  they  are  undisturbed,  appear  to  me  of 
the  happiest  kind.  I  do  not  pretend  to  say  their  sor- 
rows are  insincere,  or  that  their  grief  is  less  than  that 
of  those  who  give  themselves  up  to  fits  of  violence, 
and  sink  under  the  pressure  of  their  misfortunes  ;  this 
would  be  a  species  of  stupidity  ;  an  enormity,  of  the 
consequences  of  which  I  am  fully  sensible  ;  but  I  call 
them  happy  mourners,  because  their  constitutions  are 
so  framed,  that  their  grief  and  sorrow  do  not  dimin- 
ish the  force  and  energy  of  their  minds.  They  find 
enjoyments  in  those  things  from  which  minds  of  a 
different  texture  would  feel  aversion.  They  feel  ce- 
lestial joys  in  the  unceasing  recollection  of  those  per- 
sons whose  loss  they  deplore. 

Every  adversity  of  life  is  much  more  easily  over- 
come in  Solitude  than  in  the  world,  provided  the  soul  ' 
will  nobly  bend  its  flight  towards  a  diflerent  object. 
When  a  man  thinks  that  he  has  no  resources  but  in 
despair  or  death,  he  deceives  himself  ;  for  despair  is 
no  resource.  Let  him  retire  to  his  study,  and  there 
seriously  trace  out  the  consequences  of  some  settled  > 
truth,  and  his  tears  will  no  longer  fall,  the  weight  of 
his  misfortunes  will  grow  light,  and  the  pangs  of  sor- 
row  fly  from  his  breast. 

In  Solitude,  the  most  trifling  emotions  of  the  hsait, 
every  appearance  of  domestick  felicity  or  rural  pleas- 
ure, drives  away  impatience  and  ill-humour.  Ill -hu- 
mour is  an  uneasy  and  insupportable  condition,  which 
the  soul  frequently  fails  into,  when  soured  by  a  nura- 
ber  of  those  petty  vexations  which  we  daily  experienSll 
m  every  step  of  our  progress  through  life  5  but  we 

Y  2 


I 


270  THE    INFLUENCE  OV   SOLITUDE 

need  only  to  shut  the  door  in  order  to  avoid  this  scourge 
of  happiness.  Impatience  is  a  stifled  anger,  whicU 
men  silently  manifest  by  looks  and  gestures,  and 
weak  minds  ordinarily  reveal  by  a  shower  of  com- 
plaints. A  grumbler  is  never  farther  from  his  proper 
sphere  than  when  he  is  in  company  j  Solitude  is  his 
only  asylum. 

Vexations,  however,  of  almost  every  kind,  are  much 
sooner  healed  in  the  tranquility  of  retirement  than  in 
the  noise  of  the   world.      When  we  have  attained  a 
cheerful  disposition,  and  do  not  suffer  any  thing  to 
thwart,  restrain,   or   sour  the  temper  of  our  minds  ; 
when   we   have   learned  the  art  of  vanquishing  our- 
selves, no  worldly  vexations  can  then   obstruct  our 
happiness.     The  deepest  melancholy,  and  most  settled 
weariness  of  life,  have  by  these  means  been  frequently 
banished  from  the  breast.     The  progress  to  this  end 
is,  in  truth,  much  more  rapid  in  women  than  in  men. 
The  mind  of  a  lively  female  flies  immediately  to  hap- 
piness, while  that  of  a  melancholy  man  still  creeps  on 
^vith  pain.     The  soft  bosoms  of  the  fair  are  easily  ele- 
vated or  depressed  ;  but  these  efiects  must  be  produc- 
ed by  means  less  abstracted  than  Solitude  ;  by  some- 
thing  that   will   strike  their   senses,    and,    by   their 
assistance,  penetrate  to  the  heart.     On  the  contrary, 
the  mental  diseases  of  men  augment  by  slow  degrees, 
take  deeper  root,  lay  stronger  hold  of  the  breast,  and 
to  drive  them  away,  it  is  necessary. to  apply  the  most 
efficacious   remedies  with  unshaken  constancy  ;  for 
here,  feeble  perscriptions  are  of  no  avail.     The  only  * 
^hance  of  success,  is  by  exerting  every  endeavour  to 
place  the  body  under  the  regimen  of  the  mind.     Vi-  v 
gourous  minds  frequently  banish  the  most  inveterate 
evils,  or  form  a  powerful  shield  against  all  the   darts 
^^f  fate,  and  by  braving  every  danger,  drive  away  those 
iRelings  by  which  others  are  irritated  and  destroyed. 
They  boldly  turn  their  eyes  from  what  things  are,  tQ 


ON  THE   MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  271 

T/hat  they  ought  to  be  ;  and,  with  determined  resoki- 
tion,  support  the  bodies  they  are  designed  to  animate, 
while  weaker  minds  surrender  every  thing  committed 
to  then'  care. 

The  soul,  however,  always  yields  to  those  circum- 
stances which  are  most  agreeable  to  its  peculiar 
character.  The  gaming  table,  luxurious  feasts,  and 
brilliant  assemblies,  are  the  most  palatable  aliments, 
the  most  pleasing  comforts  to  the  generality  of  men  ; 
while  tht  bosoms  of  those  who  sigh  for  Solitude,  from 
a  consciousness  of  all  the  advantages  it  affords,  feel  no 
tranquility  or  enjoyment  but  in  peaceful  shades. 

These  reflections  upon  the  advantages  which  the 
heart  derives  from  .  Solitude,  bring  me,  at  last,  to 
this  important  question  :  Whether  it  is  easier  to  Uve 
virtuously  in  Solitude  or  in  the  World  ? 

In  Society,  the  virtues  are  frequently  practised 
from  a  mere  sense  of  duty.  The  Clergy  feel  it  their 
duty  to  afford  instruction  to  the  ignorant,  and  consola- 
tion to  the  afflicted.  The  Judges  think  it  their  duty  to 
render  justice  to  the  injured  or  oppressed.  The  Phy- 
sician pays  his  visits  to  the  sick,  and  cures  them,  ill,  or 
well ;  and  all  for  the  sake  of  Humanity^  say  these  gen- 
tlemen. But  all  this  is  false  :  the  clergy  afford  consola- 
tion, the  lawyer  renders  justice,  the  physician  cures,  not 
always  from  the  decided  inclination  of  the  heart,  but  be- 
cause he  must,because  his  duty  requires  it,  because  the 
one  must  do  honour  to  his  gown,  the  other  is  placed  in 
the  seat  of  justice,  and  the  third  has  pledged  his  skill  on 
such  and  such  prognosticks.  The  words  '<  your  known 
hujnanity^^^  which  ahvays  shock  my  feelings,  and  are 
introductory  to  the  contents  of  a  thousand  letters  I 
have  received,  are  nothing  more  than  the  style  of  cus- 
tom, a  common  flattery  and  falsehood.  Humanity  is 
a  virtue,  a  nobleness  of  soul  of  the  highest  rank  ;  and  ' 
how  can  any  one  know  whether  I  do  such  and.  suc^ 


§72  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

things  from  a  love  of  virtue,  or  because  I  am  bound 
by  duty  to  perform  them  ? 

Good  works,  therefore,  are  not  always  acts  of  vir- 
tue. The  heart  of  that  man  who  never  detaches 
himself  from  the  affairs  of  the  world,  is  frequently 
shut  against  every  thing  that  is  good.  It  is  possible 
to  do  good,  and  not  be  virtuous,  for  a  man  may  be 
great  in  his  actions  and  little  in  his  heart,*  Virtue  is 
a  quality  much  more  rare  than  is  generally  imagined* 
It  is,  therefore,  necessary  to  be  frugal  of  the  worda 
humanity^  virtue^  patriotism^  and  others  of  the  same 
import  ;  they  ought  only  to  be  mentioned  upon  great 
occasions  ;  for  by  too  frequent  use,  their  meaning  is 
weakened,  and  the  qualities  they  describe  brought  in- 
to contempt.  Who  would  not  blush  to  be  called 
learned  or  humane^  when  he  hears  the  knowledge  of 
so  many  ignorant  persons  boasted  of,  and  the  '^  ivelL 
known  humanity^*  of  so  many  villains  praised. 

The  probability  is,  that  men  will  do  more  good  in 
the  retreats  of  Solitude  than  in  the  world.  In  fact,  a 
virtuous  man,  of  whatever  description  he  may  be,  is 
not  virtuous  in  cdn sequence  oi  example,  for  virtuous 
examples  are,  unhappily,  too  rarely  seen  in  the  world, 
but  because  in  the  silence  of  reflection,  he  feels  that 
the  pleasures  of  a  good  heart  surpass  every  other,  and 
constitute  the  true  happiness  of  life.  The  greater 
part,  therefore,  of  virtuous  actions,  are  exercised  ia 
silence  and  obscurity.  » 

Virtuous  actions  are  more  easily  and  more  freely 
performed  in  Solitude  than  in  the  world.  In  Solitude 
no  man  blushes  at  the  sight  of  virtue,  but  in  the  world, 
she  drags  on  an  obscure  existence,  and  seeiiis  afraid 

*  "   Viri  fiotestatibufi  suhlimes^^  says  Lord  Chancellor 
Bacon,  "  ifid  tibi  ignoti  sunt.     Et  dum  negotiis  distra^ 
""  «  hunter.,  temfiore  carent^  quQ  samtQU  mt  QQrpQm  awf 
*^  animis  sua  comulanU^^ 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEAiiT.  273 

to  shew  ^ler  face  in  publick.  The  intercourse  of  the 
world  is  the  education  of  vice.  Men  possessed  of  the 
best  inclinations  are  surrounded  by  so  many  snares 
and  dangers,  that  they  all  commit  some  fault  every 
day  of  their  lives.  One  man,  vfho  piays  a  first  rate 
character  upon  the  theatre  of  the  world,  is  deficient  in 
virtuous  inclinatioris  ;  in  another,  of  the  same  class, 
his  inclinations  are  good  while  his  actions  arc  vicious. 
In  the  chamber,  before  we  engage  in  the  complicated 
business  of  the  day,  we  are,  perhaps,  kind,  impartial, 
and  candid,  for  then  the  current  of  our  tempers  has 
received  no  contradiction  ;  but  with  the  greatest  at- 
tention, with  the  most  scrupulous  vigilance,  it  is  im- 
possible to  continue  through  the  day  completely 
masters  of  ourselves,  oppressed  as  we  are  with  cares 
and  vexations,  obhged  to  conform  to  a  series  of  dis- 
gusting circumstances,  to  give  audience  to  a  multitude 
of  men,  and  to  endu  j*^  thousand  absurd  and  unex- 
pected accidents  whlprdistract  the  mind.  The  folly, 
therefore,  of  mystick  minds,  was,  in  forgetting  that 
their  souls  were  subjected  to  a  body,  and  aiming,  in 
consequence  of  that  erix)r,  at  the  highest  point  of  spec- 
ulative virtue.  The  nature  of  a  human  being  cannot 
be  altered  merely  by  living  in  a  hermitage.  The  ex- 
ercise of  virtue  is  only  easy  m  those  situations  where 
is  is  not  exposed  to  danger,  and  then  it  loses  all  its 
merit,  God  created  many  hermits  too  weak  to  save 
themselves  when  plunged  into  the  abyss,  because  he 
rendered  them  strong  enough  not  to  fall  into  it. 

I  shall  here  subjoin  an  excellent  observation  of  a  ce- 
lebrated Scotch  philosopher — "  It  is  the  peculiar 
"  effect  of  virtue  to  make  a  man's  chief  happiness 
"  arise  from  himself  and  his  own  conduct,  A  bad 
"  man  is  wholly  the  creature  of  the  world.  He  hangs 
"  upon  its  favour,  lives  by  its  smiles,  and  is  happy 
"  or  miserable  in  proportion  to  his  success.  But  to 
"  a  virtuous  man,  success  in  worldly  undertakings  m 


27 4t  THE  I^^^LUEKCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

'^  but  a  secondary  object.  To  discharge  his  own  part? 
^'  with  integrity  and  honour,  is  his  chief  aim.  If  he 
"  has  done  properly  v/hat  was  incumbent  on  him  to 
"  do,  his  mind  is  at  rest ;  to  Providence  he  leaves  the 
"  event.  Mis  witness  is  in  Heaven^  and  Ids  record  ia 
<<  on  high.  Satisfied  with  the  approbation  of  God,  and 
"  the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience,  he  enjoys  hihi- 
^'  self,  and  despises  the  triumphs  of  guilt.  In  pro- 
"  portion  as  such  manly  principles  rule  your  heart, 
"  you  will  become  independent  of  the  world,  and  will 
"  forbear  complaining  of  its  discouragements." 

To  recommend  this  independence  of  the  world,  is 
the  first  aim  ^nd  only  end  of  the  little  philosophy 
which  may  be  found  in  this  treatise  upon  Solitude. 
It  is  not  my  doctrine  to  lead  men  into  the  desarts,  or 
to  place  their  residence,  like  that  of  owls,  in  the  hol- 
low trunks  of  trees  ;  but  I  would  willingly  remove 
from  their  minds  the  exces3i]|ifejar  of  men  and  of  the 
world.  I  would,  as  far  as  wSs  practicable,  render 
them  independent  :  I  would  break  their  fetters,  in- 
spire them  with  a  contempt  for  publick  society,  and 
devote  their  minds  to  the' love  of  Solitude,  in  order 
that  they  may  be  able  to  say,  at  least  during  the  course  : 
of  tVr'o  hours  in  a  day,  "    We  arejree,^^  \ 

Such  a  state  of  independence  cannot  be  displeasing  j 
even  to  the  greatest  enemies  of  Liberty  ;  for  it  sim-  \ 
ply  carries  the  mind  to  a  rational  use  of  Soliiude.  It ; 
is  by  the  recollection  of  the  soul,  by  the  mind's  i 
strengthening  itself  in  these  pure  and  noble  sentiments, 
that  we  are  rendered  more  able  and  more  anxious  tO' 
fill  our  respective  stations  in  life  with  propriety. 

The  true  apostles  of  Solitude  have  said,  "  It  is  on- 
^'  ly  by  employing  with  propriety,  the  hours  of  a  hap- 
"  py  leisure,  that  we  adopt  firm  and  solid  resolutions, 
"  to  govern  our  minds  and  guide  our  actions.  It  is  ; 
"  there,  only,  that  we  can  quietly  reflect  upon  the' 
"  transactions  of  life,  upon  the  temptations  to  which! 


ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  ^^5 

^^  we  are  most  exposed,  upon  those  weaker  sides  of 
*»  the  heart  which  we  ought  to  guard  with  the  most 
"  unceasing  care,  and  previously  arm  ourselves  against 
"  whatever  is  dangerous  in  our  commerce  with  maa- 
"  kind.  Perhaps  though  virtue  may  appear,  at  first 
f'  sight,  to  contract  the  bounds  of  enjoyment,  you  will 
"  find,  upon  reflection,  that  in  tj^utli  it  enlarges  them  ; 
*V  if  it* restrains  i he  excess  of  some  pleasures,  it  favours 
"  and  encreases  others  ;  it  precludes  you  from  none 
*'  but  such  as  are  either  fantastick  and  imaginary,  or 
"  pernicious  and  destructive,"—"  The  rich  proprie" 
"  tary  loves  to  amuse  himself  in  a  contemplation  of 
"  his  wealth,  the  voluptuary  in  his  entertainments, 
**  the  man  of  the  world  with  his  friends  and  his  assem- 
"  blies  ;  but  the  truly  good  man  finals  his  pleasure  in 
^^  the  scrupulous  discharge  of  the  august  ^duties  of 
"  life.  He  sees  anew  sun  shining  before  him  ;  thinks 
"  himself  surrounded  by  a  more  pure  and  lively  splen- 
"  dour  ;  every  object  is  emlxellished,  and  he  gaily 
.^^  pursues  his  career.  He  who  penetrates  into  the  se- 
"  cret  causes  of  things,  who  reads  in  the  respectable 
*'  obscurity  of  a  wise  Solitude,  will  return  us  publick  . 
"  thanks.  We  immediately  acquit  ourselves  more 
"  perfectly  in  business,  we  resist  with  greater  ease 
"  the  temptations  of  vice,  and  we  owe  all  these  ad- 
"  vantages  to  the  pious  recollection  which  Solitude 
<^  inspires,  to  our  separation  from  mankind,  and  to 
*f  our  independence  of  the  world." 

Liberty,  leisure,  a  quiet  conscience,  and  a  retire- 
ment from  the  world,  are,  therefore,  the  surest  and 
most  infallible  means  to  arrive  at  virtue.  Under  such 
circumstances,  it  is  not  necessary  to  restrain  the  pas- 
sions merely  to  prevent  them  from  disturbing  the 
pu'»lick  order,  or  to  abate  the  fervour  of  imagination  ; 
for  in  our  review  of  things,  we  willingly  leave  them 
as  they  are,  because  we  have  learned  to  laugh  at  their 
al)surdity,     Domestick  liie  is  no  longer,  as  in  the  gaj 


2/6  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

world,  a  scene  of  languor  and  disgust,  the  field  of 
battle  to  every  base  and  brutal  passion,  the  dwelling  ' 
of  envy,  vexation  and  ill-humour.  Peace  and  happi- 
ness inhabit  those  bosoms  that  renounce  the  poisonous 
springs  of  pleasure  ;  and  the  mind  is  thereby  render- 
ed capable  of  communicating  its  purest  joys  to  ail 
around.  He  who  shuns  the  contaminated  circles  of 
the  vicious,  who  flies  from  the  insolent  looks  of  proud 
stupidity  and  the  arrogance  of  successful  villainy  ; 
who  beholds  the  void  which  all  the  idle  entertainments 
and  vain  pretensions  of  publick  life  leave  within  the 
breast,  is  never  discontented  or  disturbed  at  home. 

The  pleasures  of  the  Vv'orld  lose  their  charms  oi)  ' 
every  sacrifice  made  in  Solitude  at  the  altar  of  Virtue. 
"  I  love  rather  to  shed  tear«  myself  than  to  make 
"  others  sjied  them,"  said  a  German  lady  to  me  one 
day.  She  did  not  seem  conscious  that  it  is  almost 
impossible  either  to  say  or  do  any  thing  more  gene- 
rous. Virtue  like  this  affords  more  real  content  to 
the  heart  than  all  the  amusements  which  are  hourly 
sought  to  destroy  time,  and  steal  the  bosom  from  it- 
self. The  mind  is  always  happy  in  finding  itself  capa- 
ble of  exercising  faculties  which  it  was  not  before  con- 
scious it  possessed.  Solitude  opens  the  soul  to  every 
noble  pleasure  ;  fills  it  with  intelligence,  serenity,  calm- 
ness, and  content,  v/hen  we  expected  nothing  but 
tears  of  sorrow  ;  and  repairs  every  ^misfortune  by  a 
thousand  new  and  unalterable  delights. 

There  is  not  a  villian  in  existence  whose  mind  does 
not  silently  acknowledge  that  Virtue  is  the  corner 
stone  of  all  felicity  in  the  world,  as  well  as  in  Solitude. 
Vice,  however,  is  continually  spreading  her  silken 
nets  ;  ensnaring  multitudes  of  every  rank  and  every  sta-  ] 
tion  To  watch  all  the  seductive  inclinations  of  the  heart,J 
not  only  when  they  are  present,  but  while  they  yet  lie 
^ornjant  in  the  breast,  to  vanquish  every  desire  by  em- 
|-)loying  the  mind  in  the  pursuit  of  noble  pleasures,  haf  j 


ON  THE  MIND  AND  THE  HEART.      277 

ever  been  considered  the  greatest  conquest  which  the 
soul  is  capable  of  gaining  over  the  world  and  itself ; 
and  inward  peace  has  ever  been  the  price  of  this 
victory. 

Happy  is  the  man  who  carries  with  him  into  Soli- 
tude, this  inward  peace  of  mind,  and  there  preserves 
it  unaltered.  Of  what  service  Would  it  be  to  leave  the 
to^v1l,  and  seek  the  calmness  and  tranquility  of  retire-  • 
ment,  if  misanthropy  still  lurks  within  the  heart,  and 
^e  there  continue  our  sacrifices  to  this  fatal  passion  ? 
Divine  content,  a  calm  and  open  countenance,  will, 
in  such  circumstances,  be  as  difficult  to  find  in  the 
flower-enamelled  meadows,  as  in  the  deepest  night  of 
Solitude,  or,  in  the  silent  shades  of  obscure  cells. 
To  purify  and  protect  the  heart  is  the  first  and  last  du- 
ty v»'hich  we  have  to  perform  in  Solitude  :  this  task 
once  accomplished,  our  happiness  is  secure,  for  we 
have  then  learned  the  value  of  the  tranquility,  the  lei- 
sure, and  the  liberty  we  enjoy.  Hatred  to  mankind 
ought  not  to  be  the  cause  of  our  leaving  the  v/orld  ; 
we  may  shun  their  society,  and  still  maiotain  our 
wishes  for  their  felicity. 

An  essential  portion  of  the  happiness  which  we 
taste  in  Solitude  arises  from  our  ability  to  appreciate 
things  according  to  their  true  value,  independently  of 
the  publick  opinion.  When  Rome,  after  the  conquest 
of  the  Pirates,  removed  Lucullus  from  the  head  of 
the  army,  in  order  to  give  the  command  of  it  to  Pom- 
PEY,  resigning  by  this  act  the  government  of  the  em- 
pire to  the  discretion  of  a  single  man,  that  artful 
citizen  beat  his  breast,  as  a  sign  of  grief  at  being  in- 
vested with  the  honour,  and  exclaimed  "  Alas  is  there 
"  no  end  to  m^y  conflicts?  How  much  better  would  it 
^*  have  been  to  have  remained  one  of  the  undistin- 
^'  guished  Many,  than  to  be  perpetually  engaged  in 
*'  war,  and  have  my  body  continually  locked  in  ar- 
tf  mour  1  Shall  I  never  be  able  to  ily  from  envy   to  a 

z 


^7B  0N  THE  MINI)  AN©  THE  HEART. 

"  rural  retreat,  to  domestick  happiness,  and  conjugal 
^'  endearments  ?"— 'Pompey  spoke  his  true  sentiments 
in  the  language  of  dissimulation  ;  for  he  had  not  yet 
learned  really  to  esteem  that,  which  all  men  possessed 
of  native  ambition  and  the  lust  of  power  despise  ;  nor 
did  he  yet  contemn  that  which  at  this  period  of  the  rc^ 
publick  eyery  Roman  who  was  eager  to  command  es- 
teemed more  than  all  other  things  ;  unlike  Manias 
CuRius,  the  greatest  Roman  of  his  age,  who,  after 
having  vanquished-  several  warlike  nations,  driven 
Pyriihus  out  of  Italy,  and  enjoyed  three^  times  the 
honours  of  a  triumph*,  retired  to  his  cottage  in  the 
country,  and  with  his  own  victorious  hands  cultivated 
his  little  farm.  To  this  spot  the  Ambassadors  of  the 
Samnites  came  to  offer  him  a  large  present  of  gold, ' 
and  found  him  seated  in  the  chimney  corner  dressing 
turnips  t. 

No  king  or  prince  was  ever  so  happy  as  was  Man? 
lus  CuRius  in  the  humble  employment  of  dressing 
his  turnips.  Princes  know  too  well  that  under  many 
circumstances  they  are  deprived  of  friends  :  and  this 
is  the  reason  why  they  ask  the  advice  of  many,  but 
confide  in  none.  The  honest  subjects  of  a  nation, 
every  man  of  reflection  and  good  sense,  pities  the  con- 
dition of  virtuous  Sovereigns  :  for  even  the  best  of 
Sovereigns  are  not  altogether  exempt  from  fears,  jea- 
lousies, and  torments.     Their  fehcity  never   equals 

*  Manius  CuriusDentatus  triumphed  twice  in  his 
first  Consulate  in  the  463d  year  of  Rome  ;  first  over  the 
Saimiites^  and  afterwards  over  the  Sabines  ;  and  eight 
years  afterwards,  in  his  third  Consulate,  he  triumphed 
overPYRRHUS.  After  this  he  led  up  the  less  Triumph, 
called  Ovation^  for  his  victory  over  the  Liicanians. 

t  Dentatus  absolutely  refused  the  present,  and  gave 
the  Ambassadors  this  answer  :  "  A  man  who  can  be  satis- 
"  fied  with  such  a  supper  has  no  need  of  gold  ;  and  I 
"  think  it  more  glorious  to  conquer  the  owners  of  it  than 
"  to  possess  it  myself." 


THE  IKFLUEXCi;    OF    SOLITUDE  27P 

that  of  a  laborious  and  contented  husbandman  :  their 
pleasures  are  not  so  permanent ;  they  never  experi- 
ence the  same  tranquility  and  content.  The  provis- 
ions of  a  peasant  are  coarse,  but  to  liis  appetite  they 
are  delicious :  his  bed  is  liard,  but  he  goes  to  it 
fatigued  by  the  honest  labours  of  the  day,  and  sleeps 
sounder  on  his  mat  of  straw  than  monarchs  on  the!;* 
beds  of  down. 

The  pleasures  of  Solitude  are  enjoyed  by  every^des- 
cripticn  of  men,  without  exception  of  rank  or  fortune. 
The  freshness  of  the  breeze,  the  magnificence  of  the 
forests,  the  rich  tints  of  the  meadows,  the  inexhausti- 
ble variety  which  summer  spreads  over  the  face  of  all 
nature,  enchant  not  only  philosophers,  kings,  and  he- 
raes,  but  the  beautiful  picture  ravishes  the  mind  of 
the  most  ignorant  spectator  with  exquisite  delight. 
An  English  author  has  very  justly  observed,  ''  It  is 
^'  not  necessary  that  he  who  looks  with  pleasure  on 
^^  the  colours  of  a  flower  should  study  the  principles 
*'  of  vegetation,  or  that  the  Ptolemaick  and  Copernican 
"  system  should  bs  compared,  before  the  light  of  the 
"  sun  can  gladden,  or  its  warmth  invigourate.  Novel- 
"  ty  is  itself  a  source  of  gratification  ;  and  Milton 
''  justly  observes,  that  to  him  who  has  been  long  pent 
"  up  in  cities,  no  rural  object  can  be  presented  which 
"  will  not  delight  or  refresh  some  of  his  senses." 

Exiles  themselves  have  frequently  felt  the  advanta- 
ges and  enjoyments  of  Solitude.  To  supply  the  place 
of  the  world  from  which  they  are  banished,  they  cre- 
ate in  retirement  a  new  world  for  themsel^!^es  ;  forget 
those  factitious  pleasures  exclusively  attached  to  the 
condition  of  the  great  ;  habituate  themselves  to 
others  of  a  nobler  kind,  more  worthy  the  attention  of  a 
rational  being*  ;  and  to  pass  their  days  in  tranquility, 

*  Cicero  sa^^s,  "  Mult  a  fir  declare  Dionysius  Pha- 
*'  LEREUS  in  illo  exilio  scrifisit^  non  in  iisiim  aliquemsU' 
'^  um^  quo  erator  batuH  ;  sed  animi  cultus  ille^  erat  ei 
}^  quad  quidani  humaiiitatis  cikus»^* 


»;••  qua 


280  ON  THE    MINB    AND    THE    HEART. 

find  out  a  thousand  little  felicities,  which  are  only  td 
be  met  with  at  a  distance  from  all  society,  far  removed 
from  all  consolation,  f*ir  from  their  country,  their  fa- 
mily, and  their  friends* 

But  to  procure  happiness,  Exiles,  like  other  men, 
must  fix  their  minds  upon  some  one  object  ;  they 
must  adopt  some  particular  pursuit  capable  of  creating 
future  hopes  or  of  affording  immediate  pleasure.  Ex- 
iles, alas  !  aspire  to  the  attainment  of  happiness,  and 
•would  still  live  for  the  sake  of  virtue. 

Maurice,  Prince  of  Isenbourg,  distinguished  him- 
self by  his  courage,  during  a  service  of  twenty  years, 
lander  Ferdinand  Duke  of  Brunswick  and  Marshal 
Broglio,  in  the  wars  between  the  Russians  and  the 
Turks.  Health  and  repose  were  sacrificed  to  the 
gratification  of  his  ambition  and  love  of  glory.  Dur- 
ing his  service  in  the  Russian  army  he  fell  under  the 
displeasure  of  the  Empress,  and  was  sent  into  exile. 
The  nature  of  exile  in  Russia  is  well  known  ;  but  he 
contrived  to  render  even  a  Russian  banishment  agree- 
jible.  At  first,  his  mind  and  his  body  w^ere  oppressed 
by  the  sorrows  and  disquietudes  of  his  situation  ;  and 
his  life  became  a  mere  shadow.  The  little  work  writ- 
ten by  Lord  Bolingbroke  upon  Exile  fell  acciden- 
tally into  his  hands.  He  read  it  several  times  ;  and 
*^  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  tim.es  I  read,"  said 
the  Prince,  in  the  preface  of  the  elegant  and  nervous 
translation  which  he  made  of  the  work, ''  I  felt  all  my 
"  sorrows  and  disquietudes  vanish." 

The  treatise  of  Lord  Bolingbroke  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  Exile  is  a  master-piece  of  stoic  philosophy  and 
fine  writing.  He  there  boldly  examines  adversities  of 
his  past  and  present  life.  Instead  of  flying  from  them, 
or  enduring  them  with  lingering  and  shameful  pa- 
tience, he  endeavours  to  conquer  them.  Instead  of 
palliatives,  he  advises  the  knife  aud  the  caustick  ;  he 


THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE  281 

probes  the  wouud  to  the  bottom  to  obtahi  a  radical 
cure. 

The  mind,  without  doubt,  strengthens  its  powers 
under  the  circumstances  of  perpetual  banishment  in 
the  same  manner  as  in  uninterrupted  Solitude  :  and 
habit  supplies  the  necessary  power  to  support  its  mis- 
fortune. To  exiles  who  are  inchned  to  indulge  all  the 
pleasing  emotions  of  the  heart,  Solitude,  indeed,  be- 
comes an  easy  situation  ;  for  they  there  experience 
pleasures  which  were  before  unknown  ;  and  from  that 
moment  lorget  those  which  they  tasted  in  the  happier 
situations  of  hfe.  When  Brutus  saw  IMarcellus 
in  exile  at  Mytelene,  he  found  him  surrounded  by  the 
highest  f  jlicity  of  which  human  nature  is  susceptible, 
and  devoted,  as  before  his  banishment,  to  tlie  study  of 
every  useful  science.  The  sight  made  so  deep  an  im- 
pression on  his  mind,  that  when  he  was  again  return- 
ing into  the  .word,  he  felt  that  it  was  Brutus  who 
was  going  into  exile,  and  not  Marcellus  whom  he 
left  behind. 

Some  years  before  Quintus  Metellus  Numidus 
suffered  the  same  fate,  at  the  time  when  the  people 
conducted  by  Marius  laid  the  foundation  of  that  ty- 
ranny which  Cesar  afterwards  erected,  Metellus 
singly  m  the  midst  of  an  alarmed  senate,  and  surroun- 
ded by  an  enraged  populace,  refused  to  take  the  oath 
imposed  by  the  pernicious  laws  of  the  Tribune  Sat- 
URNiNus^  His  immoveable  firmness  was  considered 
a  crime,  and  exile  was  its  punishment.  A  mad  and 
furious  party  gained  the  ascendancy.  The  most  vir- 
tuous of  the  citizens,  indeed,  took  up  arms  in  his  de- 
fence, resolutely  determined  to  perish  rather  than  live 
to  see  their  country  deprived  of  so  much  virtue  ;  but 
this  generous  Roman,  who  had  resisted  all  the"  exhor- 
tations of  his  friends  not  to  expose  himself  to  the 
dreadful  penalties  of  his  refusal,  thought  it  a  duty 
•w^iich  he  owed  to  the  laws  not  to  suffer  any  sedition 
Z  2 


282  ON  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART, 

to  take  place  ;  be  contented  himself  with  lamenting 
that  frenzy  which  had  seized  the  public  mind,  as  Pla- 
to had  before  lamented  the  madness  of  the  Athe- 
nians :  "  Either  matters,"  said  he,  "  will  take  a  better 
"  turn,  and  the  people  repent  and  recall  me,  or,  if  they 
'»  continue  the  same,  it  will  be  best  to  be  at  a  distance 
<'  from  Rome."  Without  regret  therefore  he  resigned 
himself  to  banishment,  fully  convinced  of  its  advanta- 
ges to  a  heart  incapable  of  finding  repose  except  on 
foreign  shores  ;  a  heart  which,  if  he  had  continued  at 
Rome,  must  have  been  incessantly  torn  to  pieces  by 
the  sight  of  a  miserable  senate  and  an  expiring  re- 
publick. 

RuTiLius  also  withdrew  himself  from  the  corrupt- 
ed city  of  Rome  with  equal  contempt  for  the  senti- 
ments and  the  manners  of  the  age.  He  had  defended 
Asia  against  the  extortions  of.  the  Collectors.  This 
gepierosity  irratated  the  Equestrian  order,  and  motives 
equally  base  exasperated  Marius'  party  against  him. 
The  most  virtuous  and  innocent  citizen  of  the  repub- 
iick  was  accused  of  corruption,  and  dragged  to  the  bar 
of  justice  by  the  vile  and  infamous  Apicius.  The 
authours  of  this  unfounded  prosecution  sat  in  judgment 
on  RuTiLius,  who  was  of  course  most  unjustly  con- 
demned, for  he  scarcely  condescended  to' defend  the 
cause.  Seeking  an  asylum  in  Asia,  this  venerable 
lloman,  whose  ungrateful  country  was  ignorant  of  his 
merit,  v/as  received  there  with  every  mark  of  affection 
and  respect.  Before  the  term  of  his  banishment  ex- 
pired, he  shewed  still  greater  contempt  to  Rome  :  for 
when  Sylla  would  have  recalled  him,  he  not  only  re- 
fused to  return,  but  made  the  place  of  his  residence  at 
»  greater  distance. 

To  all  these  instances  of  happy  and  contented  ex- 
iles, Cicero  is  a  memorable  exception.  He  possess- 
ed all  the  resources,  all  the  sentiments  necessary  to 
draw  the  greatest  advantages  from  Solitude  y  but  he 


THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE  28  3 

had  not  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  support  himself 
under  jthe  adversity  of  banishment.     Cicero,  the  sa- 
viour of  his  country,  during  his  prosperity  Avas  neither 
deterred  by  the  menaces  of  a  dangerous  faction,  nor 
alarmed. at  the  poignard  of  the  assassin  ;  but  his  covu'- 
age   failed   him  when  his   misfortunes   commenced. 
He  had  before  lamented  the  weakness  of  his  constitu- 
tion, but   after  exile,  he  became    quite   dejected,  and 
when  that  once  happens,  all  power  of  mind  is  gone  ; 
the  soul  immediately  loses  all  its    energies,  and  be- 
comes equally  incapable  of  suggesting  vigourous  mea- 
sures, or  of  performing  heroick  actions.     Cicero  and 
his  melancholy  have  dishonoured  both  Exile  and  Soli- 
tude.   Not  knowing  where  to  go  or  what  to  do,  as  timo- 
rous as  a  female,  as  capricious  as  a  child,  he  regretted  the 
loss  of  his  rank,  his  riches,  and  his  power.   He  wept  over 
the  ruins  of  Ids  house,  which  the  fury  of  Clodius  had 
levelled  with  the  ground  ;  and  poured  forth  groans  lor 
the  absence  of  Tarentia,  whom  he  soon  afterwards 
repudiated.     Such  are  the  fatal  effects  of  a  melancholy- 
mind  :  it  deplores,  with  bitter  lamentation,  the  loss  of 
those  things  in  the  possession   of  which  it  places  no 
value.     The  friends  and  enemies  of  Cicero  united  in 
believing  that   misfortune   had  disordered  his  brain. 
Cjesar  saw,  with  secret  satisfaction,  the  man  who  had 
refused  to  be  his  colleague,  weep  under   the  scourge 
of  Ci.oDius.     PoMPEY    hoped   that  his    ingratitude 
would  be  effaced  by  the  contempt  to  which  the  Iriend 
he   so  carelessly  abandoned,   exposed  himself.     Even 
Atticus,  whose  highest  gratification  was  usury  and 
magnificence,  who  without  connecting  himself  to  any 
party  was  intimate  with  all,  blushed  for  the  conduct 
of  Cicero,  thought  that  he  attached  himself  too  ser- 
vilely to  his  former  fortunes,  and  reproached  him  with 
the  severity  of  a  Cato.     Solitude  lost  all  its  influence 
over.  Cicero,  because  weak  and  melancholy   senti- 
ments continually  depressed  his  mind,  and  turned  tlie 


284  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

worst  side  of  every  object  to  his  view.  He  died,  how- 
ever, like  a  hero,  and  not  hke  a  dejected  coward.-— 
"  Approach,  old  Soldier/'  cried  he  from  his  litter  to 
Pompilius  Loenas,  his  client  and  murderer,  "  and,  if 
"  you  have  the  courage,  take  my  life." 

A  man  under  the  adversity  of  banishment,  cannot 
hope  to  see  his  days^glide  quietly  away  in  rural  de- 
lights and  piiilosophick  repose,  except  he  has  honour- 
ably discharged  thove  duties  which  he- owed  to  the 
world,  and  given  that  bright  example  to  future  ages, 
which  every  character  exhibits  who  is  as  great  alter 
his  fall,  as  he  was  at  the  most  brilliant  period  of  his 
prosperity. 

Solitude  aiTords  an  i^nalterable  felicity  under  the 
pressures  of  old  age,  and  in  the  decline  of  life.  The 
^  life  of  man  is  a  voyage  of  short  duration^  and  his  old 
age  a  fleeting  day.  The  mind  is  enabled  by  Solitude 
to  forget  the  tempests  of  which  it  was  so  long  the  sport : 
Old  age,  therefore,  if  we  consider  it  as  the  time  of 
repose,  as  an  interval  between  the  affairs  of  this  world 
and  the  higher  concerns  of  death,  an  harbour,  from 
whence  we  quietly  view  rocks  on  which  we  were  in 
danger  of  being  wrecked,  is,  perhaps,  the  most  agree- 
able period  of  our  lives. 

The  human  mmd  is  in  general  anxious  to  draw  its 
knowledge  from  every  distant  object,  before  it  applies 
to  its  own  resources.  We  therefore  frequently  begin 
our  travels  in  other  nations,  before  we  have  seen  what- 
ever is  interesting  in  our  own.  But  discreet  youth 
and  experienced  as^e  conduct  themselves  upon  differ- 
ent principles.  To  both  the  one  and  the  other,  Soli- 
tude and  self-examination  are  the  beginning  and  the 
end  of  Wisdom.  I^  Solitude  depresses  the  spirits  of 
youth,  and  renders  manhood  melancholy,  it  frequent- 
ly drives  away  the  depressiou  which  accompanies  bid 


05^  THE  MIND  AND  THE  HEART,       $85 

The  history  of  our  first  entrance  mto  life  consists 
of  a  continual  succession  of  hopes,  wishes  and  illu- 
sions :  the  succeechui^  years  are  an  age  of  vexation 
and  sorrow.  But  the  mind  of  a  man  who  has  learnt 
wisdom  from  experience,  cannot  fee  either  shaken  or 
surprised.  He  who  is  no  lon?:^er  ohliged  to  labour 
for  the  means  of  supportinij  life,  and  who  has  been 
long  acquainted  with  the  secret  practices  and  sinister 
dealings  of  the  world,  makes  no  complaint  of  the  ill* 
gratitude  with  which  his  labours  and  anxiety  have 
been  rewarded  ;  all  he  asks  for  is  tranquility  and  re- 
pose ;  and  if  he  has  made  any  advances  in  the  know- 
ledge of  himself,  if  he  has  been  obliged,  at  an  earlj 
period  of  his  life,  to  become  wise,  he  reckons  every 
thing  else  of  no  value. 

It  is  a  very  just  observation  of  a  celebrated  Gerrtian, 
that  there  are  political  as  well  as  religious  Chartreux^ 
and  that  both  the  one  and  the  other  Order  are  fre- 
quently the  best  and  most  pious  of  men.  ''  It  is  with- 
<<  in  the  most  retired  shades  of  the  forest,"  says  this 
writer,  "  that  we  meet  with  the  peace iiil  sage  and 
"  tranquil  observer,  the  friend  of  truth,  the  lover  of 
"  his  country,  who  neither  deifies  nor  calumniates. 
"  Mankind  admire  his  wisdom,  enjoy  the  beams  of  his 
"  knowledge,  adore  his  love  of  truth,  and  his  affection 
"  to  his  fellow-creatures.  They  are  anxious  to  gain 
<^  his  confidence  and  his  friendship  ;  and  are  as  much 
<'  astonished  at  the  wisdom  which  proceeds  from  his 
<'  lips,  and  the  rectitude  which  accompanies  all  his 
"  actions,  as  they  are  at  the  obscurity  of  his  name, 
<'  and  the  mode  of  his  existence.  They  endearour 
<'  to  draw  him  from  his  Solitude,  and  place  him  on 
"  the  throne  ;  but  they  immediately  perceive  inscribed 
"  upon  his  forehead,  beaming  with  sacred  fire,  "  Odi 
"  firofanum  vulgus  et  ai^ceo"  and,  instead  of  being;  his 
''  seducers y  they  become  his  Proselytes, ^^ 


^B6  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDK 

But,  alas  !  this  political  Ckartreux  is  no  more.  I' 
saw  him  formerly  in  Weteravia^  His  animated  figure^ 
while  it  announced  the  highest  degree  of  wisdom  and 
the  happiest  tranquility,  filled  my  bosom  with  respect 
and  filial  love.  There  did  not,  perhaps,  at  that  time, 
exist  a  character  more  profound  in  any  German 
Court  ;  he  was  intimately  acquainted  with  all,  and 
corresponded  personally  with  some  of  the  most  cele- 
brated Sovereigns  of  Europe.  I  never  found,  in  any 
situation,  an  observer  who  penetrated  with  so  much 
skill  and  certainty  into  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  oth- 
er men  ;  who  had  formed  such  true  opinions  of  the 
world  in  general,  and  of  those  who  played  the  most 
important  characters  on  its  theatre  :  never  was  a  mind 
more  free,  more  open,  more  cnergetick,  or  more  mild  : 
an  eye  more  lively  and  penetrating  :  I  never,  in  short, 
knev/  a  man  in  whose  company  I  could  have  lived  with 
higher  pleasure,  or  died  with  greater  comfort.  The 
place  of  his  retirement  in  the  country  was  modest  and 
simple  ;  his  grounds  without  art,  and  his  table  frugal. 
The  charm  which  I  felt  in  this  retreat  of  Weteravia, 
the  residence  of  the  venerable  Baron  de  Schauten- 
BACH,  is  inexpressible. 

Did  youth  ever  possess  more  energy  and  fire,  were 
the  hours  of  Sohtude  ever  better  employed,  than  by 
Rousseau  during  th^  latter  years  of  his  life  ?  It  was 
in  his  old  age  that  he  wrote  the  greater  and  the  best 
parts  of  his  works.  The  poor  philosopher,  when  he 
felt  himself  verging  to  the  period  of  his  existence,  en- 
deavoured to  find  tranquility  of  heart  among  the  shades 
of  Solitude  ;  but  his  endeavours  were  in  vain.  Rous- 
seau had  experienced  too  frequently  the  fury  of  those 
who  are  enemies  to  truth  ;  his  feelings  had  been  too 
frequently  exposed  to  the  severest  and  most  unremit- 
ted persecutions.  Before  he  discovered  the  danger  of 
his  situation,  he  had  suffered,  as  well  from  his  weak 
onstitution  as  from  the  little  care  he  had  taken  of  his 


©N  THE    MIND    AND    THE    HEART.  28f 

health,  a  long  and  painful  sickness.  In  the  last  years 
of  his  life  the  eflects  of  melancholy  and  chagrin  were 
niore  apparent  than  ever.  He  fiequcntly  fainted,  and 
talked  wildly  when  he  was  ill.  "  All  t\vdt\Rouss£Au 
<*  wrote  during  his  old  age,"  says  one  of  our  refined 
criticks,  "  was  nones ense."-^''  Yes,"  replied  his  fi:ur 
friend  with  greater  truth,  "  but  he  wrote  nonsense  so 
"  agreeably,  that  ^e  sometimes  like  to  talk  nonsense 
<<  with  him." 

Old  age  appears  to  be  the  properest  season  of  me- 
ditation. The  ardent  fire  of  youth  is  stifled,  the 
meridian  heat  of  life's  short  day  is  passed,  and  suc- 
ceeded by  the  soft  tranquility  and  refreshing  quietude 
of  the  evening.  It  is,  therefore,  useful  to  devote  some 
time  to  meditation  before  we  leave  the  world,  whene- 
ver we  can  procure  an  interval  of  repose.  The  thoucrht 
alone  of  the  arrival  of  this  happy  period,  recreates  the 
mind  ;  it  is  the  first  fine  day  of  Spring,  after  a  long 
and  dreary  Winter. 

Petrakch  scarcely  perceived  the  approaches  of 
old  age.  By  constant  activity  he  rendered  liis  retire- 
ment always  happy,  and  every  year  passed  in  pleasure 
and  tranquility  unperceived  away.  From  a  little  ver- 
dant harbour  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  Carthusian 
monastery,  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Septimo  with  a 
naivete  unknown  to  modern  manners' :  "  Like  a  wea- 
"  ried  traveller,  I  increase  my  pace  in  proportion  as  I 
'^  draw  nearer  the  end  of  my  journey.  I  read  and 
«'  write  night  and  day  ;  they  alternately  relieve  each 
"  other.  These  are  my  only  occupations,  and  the 
"  *source  of  all  my  pleasures.  I  lie  awake  a  great 
*'  part  of  the  night.  I  labour,  I  divert  my  mind,  and 
^^  make  every  effort  in  my  power  :  the  mo^e  difTicul- 
<'  ties  I  encounter,  the  more  my  ardour  increases  : 
<<  novelty  incites  ;  obstacles  sharpen  me  :  the  labour 
*'  is  certain  ;  but  the  success  precarious.  My  eyes 
f '  are  dimmed  by  watchings  ;  my  hand  tired  of  hold- 


58S  THE  INFLUENCE    OF    SOLITUDE 

^«  ing  the  pen.  My  wish  is,  that  posterity  may  know 
"  me.  If  1  do  not  succeed  in  this  wish,  the  age  in 
«  which  I  hve,  or  at  least  the  friends  who  have  known 
"  me,  will  do  me  justice,  and  that  is  sufficient.  My 
^'  health  is  so  good,  my  constitution  so  robust,  my 
<'  temperament  is  so  warm,  that  neither  the  maturity 
*'  of  age,  the  most  serious  occupations,  the  habit  of 
"  continency,  nor  the  power  of  time,  can  vanquish 
"  the  rebellious  enemy  which  I  am  obliged  incessant- 
"  ly  to  attack.  I  rely  upon  Providence,  without 
F'  which,  as  has  frequently  happened  before,  I  should 
''  certainly  become  its  victim.  At  the  end  of  the  win- 
«  ter,  I  frequently  take  up  arms  against  the  flesh  ; 
^'  and  am  even  at  this  moment  fighting  for  my  liberty 
*^  against  its  most  dangerous  enemy." 

In  old  age,  the  most  obscure  retirement  in  the 
country  adds  still  greater  glory  to  those  ardent  and 
cnergetick  minds,  who  ily  from  the  world  to  terminate 
their  career  in  Solitude.  Though  far  removed  from 
the  theatre  of  their  fame,  they  shine  with  higher  lustre 
than  in  the  days  of  their  youth.  "  It  is  in  Solitude, 
"  in  exile,  on  the  bed  of  death,"  says  Pope,  "  that 
"  the  noblest  characters  of  antiquity  shone  with  the 
^^  greatest  splendour  ;  it  was  then  that  they  performed 
<'  the  greatest  services  ;  for  they  then  communicated 
^^  their  knowledge  to  mankind." 

Rousseau  may  be  included  in  this  observation.—- 
«  It  is  certainly  doing  some  service,"  says  he,  "  to 
«  give  men  an  example  of  the  life  which  they  ought 
"  to  lead.  It  is  certainly  useful,  when  all  power  of 
"  mind  or  strength  of  body  is  decayed,  boldly  to  make 
^'  men  listen  to  the  voice  of  truth  from  retirement.—- 
*'  It  is  of  some  service  to  inform  men  of  the  absurdity 
^^  of  those  opinions  which  render  them  miserable.  I 
^«  should  be  much '  more  useless  to  my  countrymen 
f«  living  amongst  them,  than  I  can  be  in  the  occasipi) 


ON  THE  MIND  AND  THE  HEAHT.      2B9 

«  of  my  retreat.     Of  what  importance  is  it  where  I 
"  live,  if  I  act  as  I  ought  to  act  ?" 

But  a  young  lady  of  Germany  did  not  understand 
things  in  this  way*  She  maintained  that  Rousseaxj 
was  a  dangerous  seducer  of  the  youthful  mind  ;  and 
that  he  had  acted  extremely  wrong  in  discovering  in 
his  Confessions  all  his  faults,  his  vicious  inclinations, 
and  the  worst  side  of  his  heart.  Such  a  work  written 
by  a  man  of  virtue  would  be  immediately  decried  ;  but 
Rousseau,  by  whose  writings  the  wicked  are  so  cap- 
tivated, in  his  story  of  the  Bnban  vole^  evinces  a  heart 
of  the  blackest  dye  !  There  are  a  thousand  passages 
in  that  book,  from  which  we  may  clearly  see  that  his 
pen  was  guided  hy  vanity  alone,  and  others,  where  we 
feel  that  he  utters  sentiments  against  his  own  convic- 
tion. There  is  nothing,  in  short,  throughout  the 
work,  which  bears  the  mark  of  truth  ;  all  that  we 
learn  from  it,  is,  that  Madame  De  War  ens  was  the 
original  from  which  Rousseau  copied  his  Julia. 
The  Co-nfessioTis  of  Rousseau,  generally  speaking, 
contain  a  great  many  fine  words,  with  very  few  good 
thoughts.  If,  instead  of  rejecting  every  opportunity 
of  advancing  himself  in  life,  Rousseau  had  engaged 
in  any  kind  of  trade,  he  would  have  been  more  useful 
to  the  world  than  he  has  been  by  the  publication  of  his 
dangerous  writings.  ^ 

This  incomparable  criticism  upon  Rousseau,  mer- 
its preservation,  because  I  beHeve  it  is  the  only  one  of 
its  kind.  The  Conjessions  of  Rousseau  are  certainly 
not  proper  for  the  eye  of  youth  ;  but  to  me  they  are 
works  as  replete  with  philosophy,  and  as  worthy  of 
attention,  as  any  the  present  age  has  produced.  Their 
inimitable  style  and  enchanting  tints  are  their  least 
merit.  The  remotest  posterity  will  read  the  Confes- 
sions of  Rousseau,  without  asking  how  old  the  authour 
was,  when  he  gave  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived  this 
I^st  instance  of  the  sincerity  of  his  heart. 
A  a 


290  THE  INFLUENCE   OF   BOLITVDE 

The  days  of  a  virtuous  old  man,  who  has  attained 
to  the  perfection  of  his  pleasures,  flow  on  v/ith  unin* 
terrupted  gaiety  ;  he  then  receives  the  reward  for  the 
good  actions  he  has  performed,  and  carries  with  hirn 
the  benedictions  of  all  around  him.  The  eye  is  never 
afraid  to  review  the  transactions  of  an  honourable  and 
virtuous  life.  The  energetick  mind  never  shudders  at 
the  sight  of  a  tomb.  The  Empress  Maria  Theke- 
SA  has  caused  her  own  mausoleum  to  be  erected  ;  and 
frequently  stops  to  view  a  monument,  the  dreadful 
thoughts  of  which  so  few  can  bear  :  she  points  it  out 
to  the  observation  of  her  children,  and  says,  "  Is  it  pos- 
''  sible  for  us  to  be  arrogant,  when  we  here  behold 
"  what,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  will  become  the 
"  depository  of  Emperours  ?" 

There  are  few  men  who  think  with  so  much  sub- 
limity. Every  one,  however,  may  retire  from  the 
world,  appreciate  the  past  by  its  just  value,  and  during 
the  remainder  of  his  days,  cultivate  and  extend  the 
knowlfcdlge  he  has  acquired.  The  tomb  will  then  lose 
its  menacing  aspect  ;  and  man  will  look  upon  death 
like  the  closing  evening  of  a  fine  day. 

The  pure  enjoyments  of  the  heart  frequently  en- 
gender religious  ideas,  which  reciprocally  augment 
the  pleasures  of  Solitude.  A  simple,  innocent  and 
tranquil  life,  qualifies  the  heart  to  raise  itself  towards 
God.  The  contemplation  of  nature  disposes  the  mind 
to  religious  devotion,  and  the  highest  effect  of  religion 
is  tranquility. 

When  the  heart  is  penetrated  with  true  sentiments 
of  religion,  the  world  loses  all  its  charms,  and  the  bo- 
som feels  with  less  anguish  the  miseries  and  torments 
attached  to  humanity.  You  live  continually  in  ver- 
dant meadows,  and  see  yourself  surrounded  by  the 
fresh  springs,  upon  the  borders  of  which  the  Shepherd 
of  Israel  fed  his  flocks.  The  tumultuous  hurry  of  the 
world  appears  like  thimder  rolling  at  a  cjistance  ;  lik^ 


ON    THE    MIND    AND    THE  HEART.  291 

the  murmuring  noise  of  distant  waters,  the  course  of 
which  you  perceive,  and  whose  waves  break  against 
the  rock  upon  which  you  are  safely  seated.  When 
AaDisoN  perceived  that  he  was  given  over  by  his 
physicans,  and  felt  his  end  approaching,  he  sent  for  a 
young  man  of  a  disposition  naturally  good,  and  who 
was  extremely  sensible  of  the  loss  with  which  he  was 
threatened.  He  arrived  ;  but  Addison,  who  was  ex- 
tremely feeble,  and  whose  life  at  this  moment  hungT 
quivermg  on  his  lips,  observed  a  profound  silence. 
After  a  long  pause  the  youth  at  length  addressed  him, 
"  Sir,  you  desired  to  see  me ;  signify  your  commands, 
"  and  I  will  execute  them  with  religious  punctuality." 
Addison  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  replied  in  his  dy- 
ing voice,  *'  Observe  with  what  tranquility  a  Chris- 
«  tian  can  die*." 

Such  is  the  consolation  and  tranquility  which  reli- 
gion affords  ;  such  is  the  peace  of  mind  which  a  life 
of  simplicily  and  innocence  procures  :  a  condition 
rarely  experienced  in  the  world.  Even  when  it  is  not 
altogether  in  our  own  power  to  remove  the  obstacles 
to  this  inward  peace  ;  to  oppose  upon  all  occasions  the 
victory  of  the  world  ;  the  idea  of  sacrificing  to  God, 
is  very  natural  and  affecting  to  every  warm  and  virtu- 
ous heaiit.  Why,  therefore,  are  we  so  continually 
discontented  and  miserable  ?  Why  do  we  so  frequent- 
ly complam  of  the  want  of  happiness  and  enjoyment, 
if  it  be  not  because  we  permit  the  mind  to  be  impos- 

*  The  person  here  alluded  to  was  Lord  Warwick,  a 
young  man  of  very  irregular  life,  and  perhaps  of  lose  opini 
ons;  Addison,  for  whom  he  did  not  want  respect,  had 
very  diligently  endeavoured  to  reclaim  him  ;  but  his  ar- 
guments and  ex]>ostulations  had  no  effect :  when  he  found 
his  life  near  its  end,  therefore,  he  directed  the  young  lord 
to  be  called,  and  made  this  last  experiment  to  reclaim 
him.  What  effect  this  awful  scene  had  on  the  earl  is  un- 
known ;  he  hkewise  died  himself  m  a  short  time.  The 
Translator. 


292  THE  INFLUENCE    OF   S9LITUDE 

ed  upon  by  the  false  appearances  of  things  ;  because 
sensuality  frequently  predominates  over  reason  ;  be- 
cause we  pr<^fer  deceitful  gifts  and  fleeting  pleasures 
to  more  essential  and  permanent  enjoyments  ;  if  it  be 
not,  in  one  word,  because  the  bosom  is  not  sensible  of 
the  august  precepts  of  our  holy  religion  ? 

But  he  who  has  studied  the  doctrines  of  the  gospel, 
tr^ho  has  meditated  upon  them  in  silence,  has  nothing 
more  to  desire,  provided  he  is  at  last  sensible  of  the 
kind  of  character  which  he  forms  in  the  world,  of  that 
•which  he  may  acquire  in  Solitude,  and  of  that  which 
it  is  his  duty  to  attain.  If  he  is  inclined  to  think  like 
a  philosopher,  and  live  like  a  christian,  he  will  re- 
nounce the  poisoned  pleasures  of  that  world  which 
enervate  his  mind,  banish  every  serious  thought,  and 
prevent  the  heart  from  rising  to  its  God.  Disgusted 
with  the  frivolous  chimeras  of  vanity  and  folly,  he 
retires  to  a  distance  from  them  to  contemplate  his  own 
character,  to  elevate  his  mind-  to  virtuous  resolutions, 
and  to  resign  himself  more  entirely  and  with  greater 
permanency  to  the  emotions  of  his  heart.  If  he  con- 
tinues to  sail  upon  that  tempestuous  sea,  still  fie  .will 
with  prudenc®  avoid  the  rocks  and  sands  oMife  ;  will 
turn,  during  the  storm,  from  those  dangers,  by  which 
lie  may  be  wrecked  ;  and  feel  less  joy  in  those  hours 
when  he^ sails  in  a  fair  wind  and  favourable  sky,  than 
in  those  when  he  eludes  the  perils  which  surrounded 
him. 

To  the  man  who  has  accustomed  his  mind  silently 
to  collect  its  thoughts,  the  hours  which  he  consecratea 
to  Gon  in  Solitude  are  the  happiest  of  his  life.  Every 
time  we  silently  raise  our  minds  to  God,  we  are  car- 
ried back  into  ourselves.  We  become  less  sensible  of 
the  absence  of  those  things  on  which  we  placed  our 
happiness  ;  and  experience  much  less  pain  in  retiring 
from  the  noise  of  the  world  to  the  silence  of  Solitude. 
We  acquire,  by  degrees,  a  more  intimate  knowledge 


ON    THE    MIND    AND    THE,,  HEART.  293 

of  ourselves,  and  learn  to  look  into  the  human  breast 
^vith  a  more  philosophick  eye.  We  scrutinize  our 
character  with  greater  severity,  feel  with  higher  sen- 
sibility the  necessity  of  reforming  our  conduct,  and 
reflect  more  maturely  on  that  which  is  the  end  of  our 
lives.  If  we  know  those  things  which  render  ouv 
actions  more  acceptable  in  the  sight  of  God,  it  ought 
to  satisfy  the  minds  of  men  that  we  do  good  for  their 
sakes  ;  l3Ut  every  good  work  admits  of  so  many  secon- 
dary views,  that  every  motive  must  necessarily  depend 
upon  the  directions  of  the  heart.  Every  good  action, 
without  doubt,  conveys  quietude  to  the  breast,  but  is 
this  quietude  always  pure  ?  Was  not  the  mind  mere- 
ly actuated  by  the  consideration  of  profane  and  world- 
ly views  to  gratify  a  transient  passion  ;  or  influenced 
by  self-love  rather  than  ])y  the  feelings  of  brotherly 
affection  ?  We  certainly  discuss  our  thoughts  and 
actions  much  better,  and  probe  the  emotions  of  the 
heart  with  greater  sincerity,  when  we  select  for  the 
examination  of  great  and  important  truths  those  hours 
when  we  are  alone  before  God. 

It  is  tiius  that  in  Solitude  we  renounce  our  intimate 
connection  with  men  to  look  back  upon  the  transac- 
tions of  life,  to  discuss  our  conduct  in  the  world,  to 
prepare  for  ourselves  a  more  rational  employment  m 
future,  and  to  render  an  account  of  those  actions  we 
have  yet  to  perform.  It  is  thus  that  the  wounds 
which  we  have  received  in  the  hostilities  of  life  are 
healed.  In  the  intervals  of  a  religious  retirement, 
virtuous  resolutions  are  more  easily  acquired ;  the 
heart  is  more  easily  appeased  ;  and  we  discover  with 
greater  certainty  the  safe  road  through  all  the  formi- 
dable perils  of  life.  It  is  thus  that  we  are  never  less 
alone  than  when  no  human  being  is  near  us,  because 
xve  are  then  in  the  presence  of  Him  whose  will  it  is 
of  the  highest  importance  to  our  happijiess  to  obey. 

A  a  2 


294  THE    INPLUBNCR  OF    »OLITUJ>« 

Solitude  ?ilways  calls  us  from  weakness  to  power, 
from  seduction  to  resistance,  from  that  which  is 
present  to  that  which  is  to  come.  Although  men  da 
not  always  enter  into  Solitude  to  commune  with  God^ 
it  is  nevertheless  true  that  they  willingly  quit  noisy 
and  tumultuous  assemblies  to  enter  ijito  the  quietude 
of  his  tranquil  house,  that  they  may  not  be  for  ever 
obliged  to  lend  them?^elves  to  pleasures  which  possess 
neither  delicacy  nor  morality.  In  every  peaceful  mo- 
ment of  our  existence  we  are  more  immediately 
under  the  eye  of  Him  whom  it  is  so  important  to  us- 
to  please,  and  who  observes  the  sap;e  in  his  silent 
meditations. 

The  apostles  of  society  raise  every  where  a  con- 
tinual clamour,  as  if  they  had  matters  of  very  high 
importance  t<Ttransj\ct  in  the  world.  Everyone  ought 
certainly  to  do  more  than  the  strict  line  of  duty  call* 
upon  him  to  perform  ;  but  unhappily^  we  all  do  less 
than  our  duty,  arurieave  the  affairs  oFthe  world  to  go 
on  as  they  may.  The  energy  necessary  to  the  perfor- 
mance of  great  actions,  elevation  of  character,  and 
stability  and  firmness  in  virtue,  are  no  where  so  easily 
acquired  as  in  Solitude,  and  never  so  efficaciously  as 
by  RELiGiON.— ^Religion  disengages  the  heart*  from 
irvery  vain  desii'Cj  renders  it  tranquil  under  the  pres- 
'  re  of  misfortunes,  humble  before  God,  bold  before 
men,  and  teaches  it  to  rely  with  confidence  upon  the 
protection  of  Providence.  Solitude  and  religion  re- 
fine a!l  our  morsl  sentiments,  while  ^ve  remain  unin- 
flixted  with  the  leaven  of  fanaticism  ;  and  at  the  con- 
clusion of  a  life  passed  in  the  practice  of  every  virtue, 
we  receive  the  reward  for  all  the  hours  which  we  have 
consecrated  to  God  in  silence  ;  of  that  constant  and 
yeligious  z:?l  v/ith  which  we  Lave  raised  towards  hini 
pure  hands  and  a  chaste  heart. 

Tiie  desire  for  the  tbin^^s  of  this  world  disappears 
■vvhenaver  we  acquire  sufficient  courage  boldly   to   re- 


ON  TKE    MINU   ANDr  THE  HEART.  2D5 

sigR  ourselves  to  the  sentiment,  that  the  actual  state 
of  lasting  content  and  constant  satisfaction  of  the  soul 
has  probably  some  analog-y  to  the  joys  of  eternity.  A 
complete  liberty  to  be  and  to  do  whatever  we  please, 
because  that  in  heaven,  in  those  regions  of  love  and 
kindness,  we  cannot  possess  an  unjust  or  improper 
mchnation  ;  a  life  of  innocence  ;  a  justification  of  the 
ways  of  Providence  ;  an  implicit  confidence  in  God; 
an  eternal  communion  with  those  whom  our  souls 
loved  on  earth  ;  are,  at  least,  the  wishes  and  the  hopes 
which  we  may  be,  I  trust,  permitted  in  our  worldly  ap- 
prehensions to  indulge,  and  which  so  agreeably  flatter 
our  imagination.  But  these  hopes  and  wishes,  which, 
at  present,  shed  a  glimmering  light,  must  remain  like 
dreams  and  visions  of  the  mind,  until  the  tomb,  thick 
clouds,  and  darkness,  no  longer  hide  eternity  from  hu- 
man eyes,  until  the  veiHshal!  be  removed,  and  the 
Eternal  reveals  to  us  those  things  which  no  eyes 
have  ever  seen,  which  no  ear  has  ever  heard,  which 
have  never  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  ;  for  with 
silent  submission  I  acknowledge,  that  eternity,  to  hu- 
man foresight,  is  like  that  which  the  colour  of  purplei 
appeared  to  be  in  the  mind  of  a  blind  man,  who  com- 
pared it  to  the  sound  of  a  trumtiet^, 

*  Men,  in  gener?!,  fondly  hope  in  eternity  for  all  that  W 
flattering  to  their  taste,  inciinations^  desires,  and  pas:  ions 
on  earth.  1  therefore  entirely  concur  in  opinion  with  a  ce- 
lebrated German  philoHO])her,  M.  Garve,  that  those  per- 
sons cannot  possess  humihty  of  heart  who  liope  thai  God^ 
will  hereafter  reward  them  with  riches  and  honours.  It 
was  these  sentiments  which  occasioned  a  young  lady  ofi 
Germany,  extremely  handsome,  to  say,  she  hoped  to  car- 
ry with  her  into  the  next  world  a  habit  of  fine  siiver  tis- 
sue, zoned  with  feathers,  and  to  walk  in  heaven  on  carpets 
of  rose-leaves  spread  upon  the  firmament.  This,  also, 
was  the  reason  why, in  a  full  assembly  of  women  of  fashion^ 
where  the  question  was  agitated,  whether  marriages  w^-re 
good  to  ail  eternity,  they  all  uiianiaiously  exclaimed,  God 
preserve  us  from  it^ 


•^: 


296  THE  INFLUElNCE   OF    SOLITUDE    tSfc. 

In  this  world,  full  of  restraints  and  embarrassments, 
of  troubles  and  of  pains,  the  enjoyments  of  liberty,  lei- 
sure and  tranquility,  are  of  inestimable  value  ;  every 
one  sighs  to  obtain  them,  as  the  sailor  sighs  at  sea  for 
land,  and  shouts  with  triumph  when  he  sees  it  ;  but 
in  order  to  be  sensible  of  their  worth,  it  is  necessary 
to  have  felt  the  want  of  them.  We  resemble  the  in- 
habitants of  Terra  Firma,  who  cannot  conceive  an  idea 
of  the  feelings  which  fill  the  bosom  of  a  navigator.  For 
myself,  I  do  not  know  a  more  comfortable  notion, 
than  that  eternity  promises  a  constant  and  uninter- 
rupted tranquility,  although  I  perfectly  feel  that  it  is 
not  possible  to  form  any  idea  of  the  nature  of  that  en- 
joyment which  is  produced  by  a  happiness  without 
end.  An  eternal  tranquility  is  the  highest  happiness 
of  my  imagination,  for  I  know  of  no  felicity  upon 
earth  that  can  equal  peace  of  mind. 

Since,  therefore,  internal  and  extc^rnal  tranquility 
is  upon  earth  an  incontestible  commencement  of  beati' 
iudcj  it  may  be  extremely  useful  to  believe,  that  in  a 
rational  and  moderate  absence  from  the  tumults  of  so- 
ciety, we  may  acquire  faculties  of  the  soul  which  are 
elements  of  that  happiness  we  expect  to  enjoy  in  the 
world  to  come. 

-I  nov/ conclude  my  Reflections  upon  the  Advan- 
tages of  Solitude  to  the  Heart.  May  they  give  great- 
er currency  to  useful  sentiments,  to  consolatory  truths, 
and  contribute,  in  some  degree,  to  diffuse  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a  happiness  which  is  so  much  within  our 
reach  !  All  my  desires  will  then  be  satisfied.  As  for 
the  rest,  let. every  one  live  according  to  his  inclina- 
tion, exercise  Virtue  where  he  pleases,  and  procure 
at  his  option.  Pleasure,  in  the  enjoyment  of  which  he 
will  be  certain  of  receiving,  both  here  and  hereafter, 
the  approbation  of  God  and  his  own  conscience% 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIRST. 

Introduction,  9 

CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

The  General  Advantages  of  Solitude,  14 

CHAPTER  THE  THIRD. 

The  Influence  of  Solitude  upon  the  Mind,  70 

CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH. 

The  Influence  ofSfUtude  u/ion  the  Heart,  173 


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